


Wingman

by tasteofthebitchpudding



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Companionable Snark, F/M, Male-Female Friendship, Mild Smut, Non-Linear Narrative, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-06-01 04:44:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 110,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15135374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tasteofthebitchpudding/pseuds/tasteofthebitchpudding
Summary: Modern AU, Takes place shortly after the events in Boys of Summer Erik struggles to move forward with his relationship with Christine and his plans for her career. When an unexpected camaraderie with Meg Giry broadens his definition happiness, he learrns that monsters can be men, and even a ghost can have a life worth living. E/C, warning for adult situations





	1. Chapter 1

It started with dinner.

 

Erik shouldered his way out of the music building for the weekend, springing lightly down the steps and sidestepping students as he made his way to the faculty lot. 

He slowed his stride once he cleared the edge of the building, as the sidewalk widened out, ending in a tree-shaded brick boulevard. He pulled out and lit a cigarette from the pack he kept concealed in his tooled leather satchel (a habit Christine thought he had quit over a year ago, but what she didn’t know certainly couldn’t hurt her) and breathed in a deep lungful as he meandered. Pulling out his phone, Erik thumbed open the screen lock, and smiled at the line of unread texts. Fridays were his long day in the classroom, and Christine liked to keep him amused by sending him a non-stop running commentary of her day. 

_Babe the sbux on the corner of Market & Vine is playing Elvis Costello AND Iggy Pop. You might need to rethink your stance on hating their coffee _ .

_if I buy you a sweater that’s not black, will you actually wear it_?

_too late i bought it. It’s green. you’ll love it_.

He’d gotten into the habit of reading her messages two or three times a day during his short breaks, as once or twice she’d sent him pictures he definitely did not want to be caught looking at in class, or worse, have someone else see. He’d learned that the hard way once, when, while chatting with Nadir between classes, he’d opened a message from her that contained a close up of her bare breasts, full and lush, rosy pink nipples pebbled hard and winking up at him from his screen, with the caption _tgif, right_?

“What’s wrong? What is it, is something the matter, Erik? Let me see,” Nadir had demanded curiously at the choked sound Erik had made, his neck flushing darkly. He’d practically snapped himself in half twisting away with the phone clutched in both hands, stuffing it into his back pocket as he felt it vibrate with another message. He hadn’t checked it again until Nadir had left, eyebrow still raised suspiciously. 

_i hope that made you hard. miss you_!

It had. She was a minx, and couldn’t be trusted. 

He read the most recent messages from that afternoon as he reached the parking lot and climbed into his car.

_Erik did you alphabetize the spice rack? what the hell is wrong with you?_

__

__

_hey babe? can you pick up a box of macarons from the place on the corner? any kind. Love you_!

The bakery would be quiet this late in the afternoon, and he idly wondered why they needed a whole box of the sweet treats when he pulled up to the small brick building just a few minutes later. Christine was fond of the chocolate croissants at this particular shop, and they came here most weekends. 

Erik loved nothing better than their lazy weekends together, spent cocooned in each other’s arms with few responsibilities, save for Christine’s church job on Sunday mornings. Their schedules had steadily grown more hectic as the semester wore on, and he treasured the little bits of downtime they got to enjoy together. The weekend stretched before them now, and once he completed his bakery errand he intended on getting comfortable on the sofa with his angel in his arms, and not moving for several hours.

A tinkling bell announced his presence as he opened the bakery door. “By yourself today?” the owner called out when he approached the counter. Erik gave a brief smile and answered in the affirmative, placing Christine’s order. It felt strange, even now, the acceptance he felt in so many places, the feeling of being normal.

Having Christine by his side these past two and a half years had softened the edges of his existence, for people couldn’t help but love his angel with her bright, cheery smile and kind words for nearly everyone she met.These people--the bakery owner, the barista at the coffee shop they liked, the family that owned the Italian restaurant next door to their building--had all been background characters in Erik’s daily life for years, but now that they viewed him as an extension of Christine, any suspicion or animosity they may have felt towards the taciturn masked man were smoothed over in the balm that her personality provided.

“Lisa, ring up the professor’s order while I box this,” the owner called out to the teenager who appeared at the backroom’s swinging door. “There’s one croissant left! Make sure you take this home to her.” She cut off Erik’s attempt to protest with a raised hand. “None of that! It’s almost closing time anyways.”

Erik thanked them both, stuffing several bills in the tip jar before he headed out. “We’ll see you both this weekend!” called the cheerful voice after him. Life as _Christine’s man_ was indeed a revelation.

.  
.  
.

“Babe? Did you get my message?” he heard her call out as he came through the door. He set the box of macarons on the kitchen island, and moved to where she stood over the stove, wrapping an arm around her waist and dropping a kiss to her shoulder.

“I did. They’re behind you, and tomorrow’s breakfast for you from Mrs. Willets.” She squealed in delight, twisting in his arms to draw his mouth down to hers, before pushing him away to turn her focus back to the risotto she was diligently stirring. 

“What’s the occasion?” he asked, pulling a bottle of water from the refrigerator and taking a long swallow. 

“Meg is coming over for dinner.”

Erik choked and the water nearly came back up through the hole where his nose was not. “But it’s not Wednesday!” he gasped out, trying not to drown. 

Meg Giry had been coming over every Wednesday night for the majority of the school year. Christine had insisted to him that she and Meg needed “quality time together!” to maintain the closeness the two girls had developed when they had been roommates. Increasingly packed schedules had gotten in the way of them seeing each other much, and Christine had been determined to rectify that.

Fridays had been the original proposed night for girl time, but Erik had appealed to Christine’s love of rule following at the beginning of the term, pointing out how inappropriate it would be for Meg to be spending time with him in his home while she was taking one of his classes. She had relented, and girl’s night had been moved to Wednesdays, when he taught an evening class. 

Monday was his other late night, while Tuesday and Thursday nights both he and Christine had rehearsals; she for the city orchestra’s chorus, and he for a newly formed small chamber group which he was assistant directing. 

He still breathed through mild panic attacks every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon before heading downtown to the beaux arts building that was the chamber group’s home, but otherwise, he was enjoying the work. The musicians, several of which knew him from the school and were thus not put off by the mask, treated him with a wary respect, which Erik felt was the best he could hope for. The group had an invaluable intern, who happened to be the son of a wealthy family that donated heavily to the city’s theater district. Erik got along with the earnest young man, Daniel, quite well, and had been steadily dropping hints that it was unconscionable for a city their size to not have its own professional opera company, and didn’t Daniel’s parents agree?

Friday nights were spent relaxing at home with Christine; cooking together, cuddling on the sofa, and languidly making love. Saturdays were date nights, when Christine insisted they leave the apartment to attend recitals and concerts, movies, and dinners in restaurants. Fortunately, Christine was nothing if not a creature of habit, and the employees of her favorite haunts were used to seeing the smiling blonde together with the strange masked man at that point. 

Erik found that his anxiety over those Saturday outings had lessened considerably, although his heart rate still spiked, and his compulsion to mentally take stock of exit routes was still very present. Christine held his hand and twinkled up at him as they shared desserts in private booths or stole kisses in dark theaters. She never needed to know that he had mentally concocted elaborate plans of escape using the bottles of top-shelf liquor from the bar to create an impromptu firewall, if needed, or just how adept he was at wielding a steak knife in self defense. Fighting dirty was a skill he learned young, but it wasn’t one they needed to discuss, so as long as he could keep his back to a wall and a door in sight.

So far, Erik had gotten away scot free from having to be social on those girl’s night Wednesdays, as Meg would either already be gone or heading out when he got home from class.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like Meg Giry; on the contrary, Erik liked her quite a bit. Her humor had a sarcastic bite that he very much appreciated, and she had been kinder to him than any of Christine’s other friends, right from the beginning. The knowledge that she had come to his defense against The Boy that past summer, when she and Christine had been vacationing with the latter’s old friends went a long way in Erik’s mind. No one had ever come to his defense before, in any scenario, and he couldn’t help but feel warmly towards the little dancer as a result.

That didn’t mean he wanted to entertain her in his home on a Friday night, when he could be curled up with Christine, giving his warped skin a much-needed opportunity to breathe while they watched Netflix, or engaged in other more pleasurable activities; activities that required significantly less clothing than sitting down to baked chicken with guests required. He suspected Ms. Giry already knew more about his sex life than he was entirely comfortable with--a fact he thought of more often than he liked, particularly when her smirking face had greeted him every Tuesday and Thursday morning in his Music Lit class.

 

“No, it’s not Wednesday, Erik. Congrats on knowing how calendars work. She’s still coming over, and we’re going to have dinner, and you’re going to eat with us and be sociable, like a normal person.” She had turned to face him, and fixed him with the stern look she reserved for what she termed his “petulant temper tantrums”.

Plans for a quiet, relaxing night with Christine evaporated, and he mourned the loss by taking up, what he had to admit even to himself, was a pouting stance. When he didn’t say anything, she crossed the kitchen to where he stood, leaning into him. “Babe, c’mon. It’s Meg. She’s our friend, and she’s been having a rough time lately, you know that. We've barely gotten to see each other the past few weeks, and the semester is almost over.”

“She’s _your_ friend, Christine. I don’t have friends.”

“I can’t imagine why,” she grumbled under her breath. “She’s _our_ friend, and she’s coming to dinner, so deal with it.” She softened then, smiling gently up at him. “Take this off for a while, she won’t be here for an hour or two,” she said quietly, pulling off his mask and drawing his face down, “I promise I’ll make it up to you tonight, babe,” she whispered before giving him a lingering kiss.

 

Shortly after 7 o’clock, Meg and Christine were seated at the table, the former looking rather miserable, as Erik picked out and poured them each a glass of wine. “Tell me again what he said?” Christine was demanding, and Erik had to fight not to echo Meg’s frustrated groan. The topic of conversation hadn’t yet strayed from Remy, a grad student from the theater management department, who Meg was tentatively involved with. 

Erik had tuned out Meg’s recitation of exactly what her last conversation with Remy had been, as he tipped his wine glass up, draining it. The brash, confident young woman he remembered from the beginning of his relationship with Christine was a far cry from the unhappy shadow of a girl who sat across from him. 

Erik had noticed the marked difference in Meg’s disposition shortly after the start of the semester, and had mentioned it to Christine on more than one occasion. Christine would purse her lips and mutter “She’s going through some stuff,” without elaborating. Erik determined the less he knew the better, as he still needed to see the girl in class twice a week. It seemed that Ms Giry had indeed been having “a rough time”, as Erik took in her shadowed eyes and tightly drawn mouth. He refocused on the conversation in time to hear Meg resignedly finishing with “He’s just not that into me, Chris.”

“Well that’s just nonsense,” Christine insisted. “You’ve guys have gone out a bunch of times!”  
Erik listened as Christine counted off on her fingers all of the times Meg and Remy had “gone out”, which sounded more like group events that they happened to attend at the same time to Erik.

“That’s not dating,” he cut in, startling both girls into silence. Christine had narrowed her eyes in warning, but Erik ignored her, draining his second...or was it third? He was starting to lose track... glass. “Well, it’s not. Even I know that, and I don't date. Didn’t date. Wha-whatever.” How had he gotten sucked into girl talk?! He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to speak, and wondered how angry Christine would be if he escaped to their bedroom for the rest of the night.

 

Christine, clearly deciding it was time to create a distraction from his faux-pas, announced it was time to serve dinner, as Erik poured the remainder of the bottle into his empty glass. “Babe? Can you give me a hand?”

He found himself giving Meg an odd little pat on the hand as he got up and went around the tiny partition. “What are you doing?!” Christine hissed as soon as he was near.

“I don’t know!” he hissed back.”Why would you think I would be good company for this!?”

“She’s been depressed, Erik. She’s having trouble finding a job, this guy is jerking her around, she’s worried about money...please don’t add to it,” she huffed at him. Just before she replaced the smile on her face and returned to the table, whispered warningly “Can you please try to be nice?”

 

“Oh my gosh, Christine! This looks amazing! You didn’t need to go through all this trouble, we could have just ordered take out!”

Christine tsked away mention of take out as her chicken was placed in the center of the table. “It was no trouble at all! And I’ve been wanting to try this recipe anyways. It’s called ‘engagement chicken’ for some reason, although I wouldn’t know anything about that,” this last part said with a particularly dark look in Erik’s direction.

He swallowed his wine uncomfortably and took sudden interest in the tablecloth. They'd had an unplanned marriage talk at the end of the summer, when Christine had returned from vacation, and both admitted it was what they wanted out of the relationship. Erik had refused to allow that to be the way they got engaged, and insisted that he needed to propose to her in a more traditional manner. Christine had assured him that she didn’t need anything more than knowing he wanted to marry her, didn’t even care about a ring, would be happy eloping! --but Erik wouldn’t hear of it. The ring, Erik’s grandmother’s, had been sent for and summarily delivered. So far though, he hadn’t found the perfect moment, and they were stuck in a stalemate.

Conversation blessedly turned to work, as Meg asked questions about the upcoming season of Christine’s orchestra. As she excitedly told the younger girl about the upcoming Messiah rehearsals, for which she had a small solo part, Erik thought forward to the spring. He knew that they were going to be performing the St Matthew’s Passion, and he had already mentally penned several drafts of a letter to the management if Christine was not named a main solist. She was far too good for the chorus, and it galled Erik that there wasn’t another professional company in town to showcase her talent. For now, he thought.

“That’s so exciting, Chris! I’m so happy for you” Meg squealed, but her smile faltered after a few moments, and she looked utterly dejected again. Christine gently asked how her latest round of auditions had gone, and the smaller girl had sadly confirmed she had not won either of the roles she was trying for. “I don’t understand,’ she’d sighed. “I never had any problems in class, ever! And now all of a sudden, no one wants me!”

“It’s because you’re too short.” Erik heard a voice blurt out, and was horror stricken when he realized it was his own. Christine’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“I-I mean to say...you’re not tall...enough. For the ballet company! The average height of those dancers far exceeds, um...” 

Erik cursed his clumsy, wine-lubricated tongue. He suspected this wasn’t what his angel would consider “being nice.” Christine was glaring daggers at him, and he was certain he could kiss whatever delightful thing she had planned on doing to “make it up to him” goodbye. He desperately thought of how to backpedal out of the hole he had dug himself, trying to mentally run through everything he knew about ballet, when he remembered something he had learned during his travels abroad.

“You ought to audition for a Russian-styled company, Ms Giry. They often hire ballerinas of a more...petite stature, such as yourself” he said hurriedly, quickly trying to recover.

For a long moment there was silence. Then Meg began nodding her head slowly. “That could be it, you’re right, Erik! That cow Deanna has two left feet, but she’s like 5’9. Oh my God, how many years of training?! I was en pointe before I could ride a bike! What the hell am I supposed to do, I can't stretch myself!”

“Go to the cultural center, you know the one in Mason?” Erik encouraged in a sudden fit of helpful inspiration. “They can put you in touch with the right people. They won’t be nice, but they’ll be honest. There’s a group I’ve seen perform there, I think they might be Polish or Czech? Whatever, they mount their own productions, and they always include elaborate dancing. It’s not ballet, but it’s a paying gig and experience on your resume. It would be worth your time to inquire, at the least.” 

Meg was positively beaming. “I never would have thought of that! Shit, why didn’t they tell me this in 5 years of school? I’m so glad you’re here tonight, Erik!” Christine cocked her head at him, and her look had turned appraising.

Crisis averted he thought, rewarding his contribution to the conversation by opening another bottle.

By the time Christine had served up little plates of the macarons, the girls were talking about a new speakeasy-style bar that had opened in the theater district. “They do live jazz and dancehall music on weekends, and it looks so posh,” Meg sighed wistfully.

“Babe, we should go there to celebrate the end of the semester!” Christine turned to him excitedly. Ever since the time he had taken her to the symphony at the end of the first semester they knew each other, doing something special had become a tradition. “Meg, you should ask Remy to go. If he says no, well, then we’ll know, right?”

“Oof, I don’t know, Christine. I’m not good at making the first moves any more…I guess it’s probably the only way I’ll ever find out though.”

“And we’ll go with you!” Erik heard himself exclaiming. Christine’s mouth dropped open.

“Like...like a double date? Yeah, that’d be great! You guys are amazing!”

Erik glared at his wineglass. He had never felt so betrayed.

Meg left a short time later, looking far happier than when she arrived. While she and Christine hugged their goodbyes, Erik stacked the rinsed plates in the sink and disposed of the four--four?!--empty bottles in the recycling bin.

“Leave the dishes,” her silken voice sounded, coming up behind him. Slim arms wrapped around his waist, dainty hands caressed his chest. 

“Christine, I didn’t mean to-...” He abruptly cut off when one of the hands moved lower, rubbing down between his legs. 

“Erik, did you have a nice time tonight?” she asked lightly, as her fingers moved in a steady cadence against the shape of him through the smooth fabric of his pants. His head tipped back and he groaned, as his body slowly began to respond to her touch. 

"You were so wonderful to her," she murmured against his back. He felt the familiar pull behind his navel as her fingers deftly glided, tracing the outline of his thickening member with a teasing pressure. "You are the sweetest man, babe. I can't believe you're willing to go on a double date with them in a crowded club, just to be nice to Meg."

Erik was about to mention that he may have spoken a bit hastily and perhaps they ought to let Ms Giry and this Remy character find their own way, when Christine undid the front of his pants to slip a hand in and help him along. Her fingers teased in light circles around his tip before gripping his shaft, and protestations against the double date died in his throat.

“I know this isn’t how you expected to spend our Friday, but I don’t think it went too badly, do you?” she asked sweetly, pausing in her ministrations when he didn’t answer.

“Y-yes. It went very well, Christine,” he sighed in relief as her hand began to twist up his length slowly.  


“And you don’t mind if Meg comes over to spend time with us again, right? ...Erik?”

“Yes!” he gasped out when she released him entirely “I don’t mind!” His knees nearly gave out when her hand returned and began to work him in earnest then. 

He gripped the counter edge convulsively as her thumb found and rubbed at the sensitive little wedge at the base of his head, making his toes curl and his head spin. He was close, so close to his edge, as her hand dragged up and down his length in firm, steady strokes. She pressed her thumb just _so_ , causing him to moan out her name when, abruptly, she released him, and the sudden loss of pressure was almost painful.

“C’mon, let’s go to bed,” she trilled innocently, withdrawing her hand, causing a little whimper to escape his throat. “Erik?” 

 He heard a the fimer tone enter her golden voice as he remained gasping at the counter, and forced himself to stand upright.

  
“I want you on your back and in my mouth, now” she ordered, and he allowed himself to be led to their room by the hand.

If this was the reward for a night of being social, Erik found that he didn’t that much mind having Meg over for dinner after all.

.  
.  
.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adjusted for awkward chapter break!

The end of the semester was upon them before they knew it, and Christine suddenly found herself swamped with rehearsals. She had been asked to join a wassailing group that performed at private Christmas parties, and he’d watched in amusement as she layered a green capelet over her bell-shaped dress, her golden curls piled under a ludicrously-brimmed bonnet, and did a spin for his perusal.

“How do I look? She ask coquettishly. 

“Very Dickensenian, my dear,” he’d answered, kissing her lightly.

In the weeks leading up to the holidays, Erik found himself alone on the nights he didn’t have rehearsal himself.

Except Wednesdays.

The first time it had happened, Erik had already settled in for a quiet night at home alone. He was working on a piano concerto to be performed during the chamber group’s first summer concert series and had his composition software pulled up on his laptop and a glass of the red that Christine didn’t care for next to him at the piano. He was already in a black t-shirt and a pair of thin, soft grey cotton pajama pants when the door buzzed. Pulling the mask back on and grabbing cash from his wallet, he swung open the door, expecting the pizza he had ordered from the restaurant next door, and froze. The pizza-bearing teenager did indeed stand there...behind a puzzled looking Meg Giry.

Somewhere in the apartment, his cellphone had begun to ring. 

After several beats of silence, Erik, not knowing what else to do, ushered Meg inside and tipped the impatient teenager. 

“Someone should have told me we were going extra casual tonight,” Meg said sardonically, raising an eyebrow at Erik’s attire. 

He felt heat burn up to his ears, and became uncomfortably aware that the boxers he had shucked off when he changed out of his dress clothes earlier were laying in the hamper where he had tossed them. The only thing separating his manhood--currently swinging free--from the wide world and Meg Giry was a paper thin layer of fitted cotton jersey. 

His phone was ringing again. He lurched into the bedroom, swinging the door shut behind him and pulling off the pajama pants as he answered the phone with a snarl.

“Babe, I’m sooooo sorry, but I totally forgot to tell Meg I had rehearsal tonight! I tried texting her, but it’s crap reception in this building. Would you mind calling her before she shows up?”

Erik bit back a curse as bangged his toe on the corner of the dresser as he hopped on one leg with the phone cradled against his shoulder, tugging on the boxer briefs he had pulled from a drawer. As he drew them over his slim hips, the phone slipped and bounced under the bed. This time, he didn’t bother hiding the frustrated curse. 

“Babe? Erik, are you there?” came her tinny voice from under the bed, as he swiped the phone up.

“Yes, Christine, I’m here. And so is Meg!”

“Why do you sound so out of breath? What the hell are you guys doing?”

He suppressed a cry of frustration. “We’re not doing anything! I’m trying to put on some underwear since I’m apparently entertaining this evening.” As he growled at Christine, he picked his pajama pants up from where he had kicked them. He decided to put them back on, hoping his inappropriate attire would speed Ms Giry into leaving. 

“Wait, why don’t you have on underwear? Did you answer the door naked? Jesus, Erik, what do you do when I’m not home?!”

He furiously ended the call and flung the phone down on the bed. 

He stalked out of the bedroom to find Meg sitting at the table, three plates and wine glasses taken out, and pizza in the middle. He felt a peculiar stab of guilt. 

Meg looked up as he entered the room, waving her cellphone. “I just got her message.” She sighed heavily, indicating the glass in front of her. “I just poured this, too.” The glass shimmered with a golden white, which was certainly not what he had been drinking. He realized Meg had the bottle in her hands when he had opened the door on her and the delivery boy. 

He watched as the little dancer stoody wearily, pushing in her chair “It’s fine, Erik,” she said quietly, stacking the plates she had pulled out. “Enjoy your night.”

To his shock, he found himself stopping her. “Wait, you don’t have to leave,” he said, blocking her hand from removing the wine glasses. He held up a hand when she began to protest. “You already opened it, and I’m certainly not going to drink a riesling by myself” he sniffed haughtily.

Meg snorted unbecomingly. “Who are you kidding? You’ve never met a vintage you weren't already intimately acquainted with, you big lush.”

He couldn’t help the bark of laughter he gave as he pulled out her chair.

 

Hours later, he felt the bed shift with Christine’s weight as she climbed in.

“Hey, babe. Are you still mad at me?” He felt her nails glide up his bare back, and then her lips pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades.

“Yes, actually I am. You were very inconsiderate to your friend.”

“I know, I’m terrible. Maybe you ought to punish me,” she purred, reaching around to circle his nipple with her fingertips. He pulled away her hand and rolled over, turning to face her. 

“You can’t always distract me with sex, you know. What if I hadn’t been home tonight? She would have been standing at our door, getting your message like the afterthought that it was.You’re just dodging accountability by taking advantage of my impressive libido.”

She winced guiltily. “I know, and I really am sorry, Erik. I got so caught up in rehearsal I completely forgot what day it was. I already apologized to Meg. She said you guys barely missed me! You know I love seeing you two getting along.”

He grunted at that, not completely able to disagree with Ms Giry’s assessment. The evening had been...pleasant enough, he supposed. Meg had picked his brain about people he knew in the industry, which was quite a list in reality, and had, surprisingly, shared some stories about growing up with her tough-love mother in a working class home with no father. He wouldn’t go so far as to say Christine wasn;t missed, but the night hadn’t been a complete disaster, despite its less than auspicious start. 

He kissed the tip of her nose. “Hmmm. Well, in that case, I suppose you’re forgiven.”

“Will you come take a shower with me, babe?” she asked sweetly, nuzzling his throat. “I swear I’m not trying to distract you from my transgressions. I just want to enjoy some steamy water and have my almost-fiancee show me what he and his impressive libido can do before we go to sleep.” She kissed his lower lip, pulling it lightly with her teeth, and slid herself out of the bed with a wink, disappearing into their bathroom.

Of course he was helpless to follow.

 

Later, as they lay side by side, sated and spent, Christine stretched like a contented cat and yawned. She hummed in satisfaction, and for a moment they said nothing. “How was rehearsal?” he finally asked, breaking the silence. 

“It’s going well! I think they seem happy with me,” she said thoughtfully. “Erik? Do you know the Barbezacs? The director...he said something to me tonight, that I didn’t understand. That Mr and Mrs Barbezac are looking forward to hearing me this season. He said it like...I don't know, like they’re important, I guess? I don’t know them, so I don’t know how they’ve ever heard me.”

Erik made a noise of sympathetic confusion, and said nothing. It’s not a lie if you don’t say anything.

“Oh, and Aunt Val called me today. She wanted to know if we’re coming back up for Christmas.”

Erik had met Aunt Val the previous month, when he and Christine had taken the trip to New England for Thanksgiving. Val had stood at the door as they rolled up the long drive, and had taken in Erik’s tall form appraisingly when they had arrived, a permanently raised eyebrow on her face.

“So this is the famous Erik! It’s nice to finally meet the man who’s so thoroughly turned my niece's head,” she’d intoned archly, pulling him into an awkward one-armed hug. He hadn’t missed the look of relief that had passed over Christine’s face when they were ushered inside and nothing more said at the time. The gathering had been blessedly small, and Erik found it easy to make small talk with Val’s husband, himself a retired college professor. Christine seemed happy to see the few cousins she had, although Erik got the distinct impression she was only slightly less of a stranger to them than he. The stories she had told about her father, a bohemian musician, seemed to be slightly at odds with this typical WASPish clan. They’d clearly been warned about his mask, and studiously avoided making too much direct eye-contact, with the glaring exception of one. Val was the undisputed matriarch, and throughout the day, he had felt the older woman watching him intently over the rim of her glasses. 

 

At one point near the end of the evening, she’d accosted Erik in the kitchen, as he fetched Christine another slice of pie. “I expect that the next time we see you, there’ll be a ring on her finger. I know that may seem old-fashioned to you, but I don’t like to think that she’s holding her career back for someone who’s not serious in his intentions.”

“I have no intention of holding her back, ma’am. If she wants to join an opera company across the country or across the world, I’m prepared to follow her. And if that’s not the path she decides to pursue, I’ll support her regardless.”

“Hmph. You were ready with that one, I’ll grant you that,” she looked up at him with eyes that held a hint of a challenge. “No plans on marrying her then?”

Erik had just smiled grimly, pulling out the small velvet box he had been carrying around for weeks. 

Val’s eyes had widened slightly at the antique Harry Winston ring, with its art deco swirls and large, flawless stone. 

“Hmph. Well, it seems you do indeed think of everything, Mr DeBecque. For what it’s worth, my brother would have liked you very much, god rest his soul.”

When they left that night, she’d pulled Erik into another hug. “Looking forward to seeing you both again, very soon,” she’d said meaningfully.

She would kill him if Erik showed up on her doorstep, with the ring still nestled in its blue velvet prison in his pocket. 

“Don’t worry, I told her I was booked with performances with the orchestra and we wouldn’t be able to make it this year,” Christine murmured, nuzzing her nose into his chest. “Maybe after the holidays when things settle down...I need to start thinking about finding an internship somewhere, though. If there are any auditions in the northeast before spring, maybe we could tack a visit on then.” Erik said nothing, pulling her closer. 

The subject of what she would do after her masters graduation was one they kept putting off, but was looming with inevitability. He hadn’t lied to Christine’s aunt on Thanksgiving; he would follow her to wherever her career took her. 

But he didn’t want to start over again somewhere new, not when their lives had become so comfortable. He didn’t love teaching, but was surprisingly good at it. Since switching over to teaching majors, his evaluations had, shockingly, skyrocketed. Arrogance and ego were commonplace in the school of music, and his direct style and wealth of knowledge apparently counted for more amongst the students who paid an insane amount of money to be professionally criticized day in and day out. And although, strictly speaking, he didn’t need the money, it felt good to have a vocation, something to keep his mind occupied when he wasn’t composing. He didn’t want to leave.

The thought of her going off to find her own success without him twisted his insides until he could scarcely breathe. Christine was far too driven to be happy just singing in a chorus, being a professor’s wife, and he didn’t want her to sacrifice her own career aspirations for him. Not when her glorious voice so deserved to be heard, needed to be heard. Beginning the search for a company she could intern with or join as a guest artist was the next logical step in her career...but it would be so much more convenient if an opera company were to materialize in their own backyard. With the right patronage, Erik knew it could happen. He’d redouble his efforts with Daniel after the new year. He knew the Barbezacs were the deep pockets he needed to target; if they got it into their affluent heads that an opera company was worth raising funding for and supporting, his Christine would have the chance to cut her teeth as a prima donna right here. As long he had Daniel Barbezac’s ear, Erik was going to make good use of it, and Christine never needed to be the wiser.

 

“You never told me why you were putting on underwear after Meg got here, you know,” she murmured sleepily.

He huffed. “Because I thought I was going to have a quiet night alone, and had already changed into my sleep pants!” 

She pressed her cheek to his chest as she laughed. “Oh god, the grey ones?! Yeah, she got a show. Those things cling, babe.”

He growled in frustration as she continued to giggle.

“If it makes you feel any better, she didn’t see anything that hasn’t been discussed before. At length. Pun fully intended,” she laughed as she snuggled into his side, preparing for sleep.

“That does the opposite of make me feel better, Christine.”

“Ha, too late! She’s my best friend. You were my new boyfriend. If you thought we weren’t going to talk about your junk, you really know nothing about women.”

“I never claimed to,” he grumbled tucking the blankets around them, and dropped a kiss to her hair. “Goodnight, angel,” he whispered, feeling her breath already blowing steadily against him.


	3. Chapter 3

“Well, tell me what you think. I value your male opinion.”

Erik read the text on the proffered phone, and handed it back across the table. “You don’t want to know what I think. It isn’t nice.”

Meg huffed out a breath. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want your opinion, you ass. And if I wanted nice, I certainly wouldn’t have asked _you._ ”

The small restaurant was nearly deserted, with most people having the sense to head home in advance of the incoming snow. He and Meg sat at a small table near the back of the tiny dining room, opposite a long counter where people came in to order pizza by the slice or take out. The straw-bottomed Chianti bottle and warm glow of the faux Tiffany glass pendant lamp cast their late afternoon lunch with more intimacy than called for in the greasy little pizza shop. The bored looking woman behind the counter had waved to the dining room when they had come in with a “sit wherever”. Meg had begun to pull a chair out a table near the window, but Erik kept moving until he reached their current table, tight to the wall, facing the doors. Meg had just rolled her eyes and followed. 

“What do you think’s gonna happen?” she'd grumbled, as he pulled out a chair for her at their new table. Nothing, if he could help it; the cook was a gangly teenager, the bored woman waiting on customers soft and middle-aged. Both would be easy to subdue and Erik knew his way through the kitchen to exit in a back alley, not that Meg needed to know any of that. That was nearly an hour ago, as they killed time before Erik needed to head downtown, and Meg back to her campus apartment.

Erik reached across and speared an olive out of her salad, easily dodging the fork she jabbed at his knuckles, and considered his words for a moment. “I think he sounds like a huge fuckhead,” he said evenly, “and you could do much better.” 

Meg dropped her head down on her arm dramatically. “If there’s anyone better, they’re hiding. Believe me, I’ve looked!” she moaned. She sat up and took a long pull from her water glass grimly. “We have so much in common, but he’s just not attracted to me, I think. I’m not his type.”

“Don’t be stupid, you’re beautiful,” Erik dismissed with an eyeroll. Meg flushed, and he considered that it was maybe not appropriate to tell his girlfriend’s best friend she was beautiful. It was true though, Erik reasoned. Sloe-eyed and graceful, Meg had a fae-like air about her that was beguiling. Had he encountered her, pre-Christine, at one of those off-campus Halloween parties where everyone was masked, inebriated, and without inhibitions, he would have gladly indulged in easy, anonymous sex with the sylph-like ballerina. 

He quickly shook himself out of such thoughts with a slight blush. The reality was she was his almost-fiancée's best friend and Erik had begun to develop an odd sort of protectiveness for the little dancer. Wednesday night dinners with Meg had continued unabated in Christine’s absence, and Erik found that he couldn’t quite complain. His barbed tongue and dark humor were well-matched with Ms Giry, and he almost, maybe, somewhat found himself looking forward to the time spent in her company. 

Erik had initially been worried that Christine would be upset that they had continued the standing dinners without her, but his fears were unfounded. Christine was delighted that he and Meg were getting along so well. On the nights she was able to join them late, she would catch up with Meg enthusiastically and beam at him, casting her bright smile in his direction every time their eyes met. And oh the things she would do to his body every time he spent time “being nice” with Meg. Pleasuring him with lips and tongue and her heavenly mouth; with insistent, questing fingers, curling into places he had never experienced touch before, bringing him to a state of orgasmic nirvana; with her tight, pulsing heat as she moved rhythmically on top of him. Sex with Christine had always been good, but it had become positively incendiary in the past few months. 

“It’s not about _looks_ , it’s about attraction, you dolt.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Erik countered. “A sense of humor, common interests, shared values...those are things that should count.”

“I’m not saying they don’t! But if the attraction factor isn’t there, that stuff doesn’t always matter,” Meg insisted. 

Erik scoffed at her, spearing the last of his salad.. “Please. Do you actually think Christine was _attracted _to me when we first met?”__

____

“Yes,” Meg responded without hesitation. “Are you joking? For weeks---weeks!---I had to hear about how good you smelled and how soft your hair was, and about your stupid hands. Jesus, she never shut up about your fucking hands!” 

It was Erik’s turn to flush. 

She looked him over with narrowed eyes. “You know, Erik, for an allegedly smart guy, you’re pretty stupid. Your personality is garbage, boy-o. She never mentioned your sense of humor, probably because you don’t have one. If there hadn’t been a mutual attraction, you guys never would have happened. And if you hadn’t finally asked her out when you did, I was going to be forced to intervene, I swear to god.”

He gulped his water uncomfortably, knowing that it was technically Christine who had made the first move, but he decided it wasn’t necessary to bring that up right then.

“She never even mentioned that you were the masked guy from the grad department until we saw you coming out of a classroom one day and she practically swooned,” Meg mused, nibbling the edge of a banana pepper. “I think you were yelling at the Dean that day. How do you even _know _him?” she asked, brow furrowed.__

____

Erik neatly evaded the question. “So we’re still on for Saturday, then? Fuckhead doesn’t say anything about it in that text.”

Meg laughed, in spite of herself. “Yeah, I guess we are. He cancelled on me for tomorrow, not for the weekend.”

The long awaited double date with Meg and Remy would be taking place that weekend, to Erik’s dismay. He had developed a healthy dislike of the young man over the course of his time spent with Meg, and wasn’t looking forward to sitting across from him in a crowded club. Both Meg and Christine were looking forward to the night out though, so there was no way to back out now. Fortunately, Meg had much to take her mind off the stalled relationship. Her trip to the European Cultural Center had yielded her an audience with the director of a small but well-respected performance group, and her many years of training had impressed them. She was dancing in her first production with the group later that winter, and had begun rehearsals of her own.

“Shit, I’ve got to get going,” he noted, glancing at the time on his own phone and pulling on his wool coat. “See you tomorrow--don’t bring over that same garbage as last week.”

“That was a perfectly nice moscato! You’re a snob. AND I’d like to point out that you still drank half the bottle!” she cried indignantly.

“Well, it would have been _rude _not to, obviously,” he sniffed, throwing down enough cash to cover both their salads before looping his scarf around his neck.__

____

__

“Whatever, asshole. Thanks for lunch. Have a good rehearsal!” she called to his retreating back.

 

“Hello, Sir!” Daniel had materialized at his elbow moments after he entered the rehearsal space. “Dr. Bryson isn’t making it in with this weather, so it’s all you this evening. We’re just waiting on a few of the strings. Is there anything you need from me before we get started? Water or coffee? Oh, and there’s someone here to see you, sir.”

“It’s just Erik, Daniel. Not Sir, not Mr. DeBecque. Just Erik. Please,” Erik lectured the young intern for approximately the 158th time that month. He shook the snow off his peacoat and found himself suddenly engaged in a game of tug-of-war with Daniel over the heavy black wool. 

“Fine, take it!” he let go of the coat in exasperation. He had never had anyone hold him in any sort of esteem before, and he found Daniel Barbezac’s particular brand of admiration to be somewhat exhausting. 

 

When Daniel first started working with the company, he had confessed to once hearing Erik perform in Vienna while vacationing with his family. He had recounted the grand room the concert had been held in and the high caliber of the musicians who played, but mostly how completely spellbinding Erik’s performance was. How excited he and his parents had been to learn, years later, that the brilliant pianist they had discovered was, in fact, a humble assistant professor in their very own city; how that vacation had sparked his interest in working in the Arts, in any capacity.

Conrad Bryson and several of the other musicians had listened on in interest, Dr Bryson’s brow arched in amusement as Erik had fidgeted in embarrassment, hoping a hole would open in the floor and swallow him up, saving him from the long looks and sudden interest garnered from his just moments ago apathetic colleagues. Thankfully, a start had been called to the rehearsal shortly after. 

“You seem to have quite an admirer there!” Conrad had quietly mused to Erik while the musicians settled into their seats. “How old were you when they saw you play?” 

Erik remembered that concert. He had performed the second movement of Mozart’s piano concerto in D, and had been spectacularly hung over. There’d been half a dozen performances booked between Linz and Vienna, and he had been exhausted. He’d desperately needed to get drunk, get laid, and sleep for a week when he had arrived in Leopoldstadt. The night before the concert, he’d managed at least the first. The building had been quite grand, a marvel of baroque architecture, and Erik remembered the coolness of the stone columns that he leaned on as he threw up in a trash can..

“Early twenties? It was before I came here for grad school.”

Bryson had raised an appraising eyebrow at the younger man’s nonchalance. “That’s quite impressive, Erik. We’re lucky to have you,” he held up a hand when Erik had begun to protest the compliment. “And if deep pocket donors agree, that’s certainly not a bad thing for us. That maybe puts you in a unique position; you ought not waste it.”

“And what position is that?” he’d ground out through clenched teeth.

Conrad had just laughed and spread his hands expansively. “Influence, my boy.”

 

Erik had recalled that conversation with Dr Bryson a few weeks after Daniel had started, while he and Christine got ready for bed one night. She had been brushing her teeth and furiously recounting the news that a girl she’d not gotten along with in undergrad had just received a small role in an professional production of Gianni Schicchi in the city where she was currently in school.

“She’s not even good, Erik! It’s just the benefit of proximity. What the hell was I thinking going to grad school in a city without an opera company?!”

His heart had twisted at her words. It had been the first time Christine had voiced that sentiment aloud, but it certainly hadn’t been the first time Erik had thought it. She’d stayed in the city where she’d completed her undergraduate degree because of him. They’d been still new in their relationship when she’d graduated, only together a little over a year at that point, but their lives were already so interwoven--they lived together, he was her accompainest, they spent all their days together on campus--that Christine hadn’t thought twice at the time about applying for the grad program at the university. They both should have thought through the professional ramifications of that at the time, of the fact that the city’s opera company had folded due to mismanagement of funds several years prior, but had been too dizzy in love to think of anything but each other. 

“Build me an opera house, babe,’ she’d pouted when she’d climbed into bed a few minutes later. “Cash in some of your grandfather’s stocks and build us our own opera house. You can be the music director, and I’ll be your leading lady. We can live in a swanky apartment at the top of the building, or...or under the stage! We’ll have inappropriate relations in the orchestra pit and the private boxes whenever we want. And Mary Black and her three line walk on role can piss right off!”

He’d outwardly laughed at the time, and spooned up behind her as he breathed in her lavender shampoo. His mind was already spinning at the possibility. _Influence _. Conrad Bryson’s words rang in his ears as Christine drifted to sleep in his arms that night. If the big money donors demanded an opera company, and were willing to fund it...he could certainly afford to put up substantial funding himself, but not enough to build a company from the ground up. Or could he? He’d need subscribers and donors to keep it going, in any case. He’d thought of Daniel Barbezac’s earnest, eager-to-please face, and pulled Christine a bit tighter to him as he began to mentally formulate a plan. _Influence _.____

_____ _

_____ _

 

Daniel ducked his head sheepishly, clutching the wet coat, as Erik pushed through the auditorium doors. “Of-of course, s-Erik. Your guest is sitting in, well, she’s right there.”

Erik had taken in the sight of her golden curls spilling over the back of the chair she perched on as soon as he entered the room. He watched as she turned at the sound of his voice, at the smile that split her face. As long as he lived, he would never tire of seeing that smile, and knowing that it was for him.

“Hey babe,” she murmured, raising to her feet as he loped down the aisle to her. She leaned into him, looping arms around his neck and stretching up to meet his mouth in a soft kiss.

“Is everything alright?” he questioned, heat stealing up his neck. He could feel every set of eyes in the room on them. Daniel’s bore through his back, and he was facing the cellist who stood watching with an open mouth. 

“Oh, yes! Orchestra was cancelled for tonight with this weather, and I realized I haven’t gotten a chance to hear your group yet! Is it okay if I stay, Erik? I’ll stay out of the way, I promise.”

“Of course it is, angel,” he breathed into her hair, pulling away to turn to face the young man still hovering behind him. “Daniel, this is Christine Daaé . She’s a soloist with the symphony orchestra chorus. Christine, this is Daniel Bar--our intern, Daniel.”

Daniel’s eyebrows rose at the mention of Christine’s name, and he extended a hand that she met enthusiastically. “Nice to meet you, Daniel! I’ve heard nothing but great things about you!” she lied sweetly, as the musicians took their places and rehearsal began

Two hours later, Daniel stood near the flutist, another professor from the university, as he broke down his instrument and gathered his music up. Erik was gathering up his own music as Christine wrapped an arm around his waist. “They are an unexpected couple,” Daniel said cautiously.

Geoff Pope looked up to watch the masked man being pulled into a kiss by the blonde singer, and snorted. “She’s a delightful young woman, and he’s a misanthropic grump. Opposites attract, young man, don’t you know that?” Daniel chuckled agreeably. The odd couple trope certainly seemed alive and kicking between Mr. DeBecque and the very lovely Ms. Daaé. “They’re both extraordinarily talented,” Pope went on “it’s a shame we’ll probably be losing them this year.”

The intern’s head whipped around at that. Conrad Bryson had let it slip more than once that he was looking to retire at the end of the spring semester. If Erik left as well, the future of the chamber group--the one he had pushed for, exerting the influence of his name and his parent’s money at both the symphony and the school--would be dire. “But why?!”

Pope shrugged. “Nature of the beast, unfortunately. Despite his...prickly nature, Mr. DeBecque has quite a few connections. He can perform and compose anywhere, you know? She’s a vocalist, and there’s no outlet for that here. I don’t see them splitting up, so I’d expect they’ll both be moving on together.”

Several things clicked into place for Daniel Barbezac in that moment. Erik’s quiet insistence that the theater district trustees ought to start fundraising for a new opera company. His encouragement that Daniel should see the symphony perform. His mention of the talented soprano who sang there. In turn, Daniel had mentioned to his parents that the strange masked pianist they were so impressed by had recommended the symphony’s current season, and made mention of the singer by name.

Daniel was determined to parlay his business degree into something in arts management. The chamber group had been his way of getting a foot in the door in the industry, but perhaps there was another avenue to pursue. He’d never mentioned being involved with the lovely soprano, but Erik’s motives were clear as day to to the young intern. Perhaps, Daniel mused, he needed to more closely align his own goals with those of Erik DeBecque.

 

“What about New Years? Are you looking forward to it yet?” Meg asked with a baiting smirk.

“That’s not even funny,” Erik snapped at her, stabbing a snowpea with his chopsticks in irritation. He was certainly not looking forward to New Year’s Eve, and Meg knew it.

He and Christine would be having dinner with Raoul Chagny, her childhood friend and high school boyfriend, and his brother, Phillippe. The popinjay, Erik thought sourly, had been most insistent that Christine meet him and his brother for dinner on the holiday, and Christine had firmly informed Erik that they’d be accepting the invitation. Meg herself had also received an invitation, but had yet to confirm her attendance.

“I can’t believe you’re going to abandon me in that lion’s den,” Erik grumbled. Meg laughed and rolled her eyes skyward. “I told you they’re not that bad!” she exclaimed. “I actually think you and Phillippe will get along very well; he’s an arrogant asshole too. And Raoul is...well. He’s a frat bro. Super nice for a bro, don’t get me wrong! But a bro nonetheless. He’s mostly harmless.”

Erik snorted in disgust at that, knowing better. Beef with broccoli, extra hot Kung Pao chicken,and an order of spicy lo mein stretched across the table between them. Christine wouldn’t be joining them that evening, after having rehearsal cancelled the previous evening, and Erik had taken advantage of being able to order his favorites that Christine disliked from the Chinese takeout place up the block.

“I’ll give you this,” Meg said suddenly thoughtful, “I got the impression Raoul was taken aback when Christine told him you guys would both be joining them on New Year’s. I think he expected you to not come again, like over the summer.”

“That’s never going to happen again,” Erik growled. He and Christine had worked over some major hurdles in their relationship in the last five months, but Erik didn’t think he’d ever be secure enough in her love to willingly send her off to that boy again. He’d practiced a neat severing of joints, slicing through muscle and tissue with surgical precision on several large cuts of beef several times since Christine had returned from that summer trip. He was confident he’d be able to rend the popinjay limb from limb with minimal mess if it came to that. 

Erik and Meg on opposite ends of the sofa, engrossed with the flickering television screen, when Christine let herself into the dark apartment over an hour later. She shuddered at the horror movie the two were watching and drifted over to the counter, where the chinese takeout containers were stacked. She wrinkled her nose at the beef with broccoli, and opened the second, hoping the sweet walnut chicken she liked would be there. She sighed at the lo mein. 

“Hey babe,” Erik called out to her. “Long night?” She made her way over to the sofa, leaning to drop a kiss to his head.

“Yes, I almost wish they hadn’t cancelled yesterday,” she replied wearily, wincing at the gore on the screen. 

“Chris, there’s plenty of room, make a plate and come sit dow-- _oh my god, is this dumb bitch walking into the woods now? How is she this stupid?! _” Meg flapped her arms in outrage while Erik laughed. Christine averted her eyes from the television as the sounds of the heroine’s screams filled the air, and retreated from the sofa, making her escape to the bedroom.__  
.  
.  
.

____

____

 

Meg had left shortly after. Erik put away the leftover takeout and went around turning out the lights, feeling oddly complacent as he listened to the soft sounds of movement Christine made in the next room. He’d entered their bedroom to find her already showered and in pajamas, her long legs left bare in a tiny pair of blue striped shorts. She was sitting on the bench at the end of the bed toweling at her hair, the riot of blonde curls darkened to buckwheat honey, still heavy with water. Her full breasts were outlined in the thin fabric of her top, and he watched their movement as she raised the towel over her head. Her nipples were just barely visible through the thin material and the drag of fabric against them dried his mouth and stiffened his cock. She was the most alluring thing he’d ever laid eyes on. 

“Let me,” he came up to her side, pulling the towel from her hands. She let him take it, but said nothing. He worked the terry cloth over her head, squeezing fistfulls of curls at a time, wringing them out. “How did it go tonight? Iron out all the kinks from the opening?”

The orchestra had their first Messiah performance the previous weekend, and would wrap up their season that Friday evening. Erik had attended the opening performance, and watched from his seat in a dark corner, swallowing around a lump in his throat. He already knew Christine’s talent, he knew the crystal purity of her voice. What he hadn’t been prepared for was how absolutely stunning she’d looked up on the stage. The harsh lights only seemed to enhance her beauty, and the stagelight’s glow on her halo of golden hair served to make her look like the angel he knew she was.

He’d waited for her in the hallway at the back of the theater, and had watched her hug the other soloists who were being greeted by enthusiastic friends and family in the reception area. Her smile had been tight, and the little furrow between her brows present until she had caught sight of him lurking on the edge of the hallway.

“I didn’t think you’d made it!” she sighed in relief, when he’d hesitantly made his way to her side and leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead. 

“Of course I did. You looked so beautiful up there,” he breathed into her hair. She took the rose he offered her, blood red with a black ribbon, with a little mew of delight, and her eyes had been bright as she’d pulled his mouth down to hers.

He rhythmically moved the towel over her hair until no more water squeezed out, then turned into the bathroom, draping it over the shower, and gathered up what he needed from her side of the vanity. She hadn’t yet moved when he returned to her side. He carefully separated her hair into sections, and sprayed in her detangler. He pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder as he gently worked his fingers from her scalp to ends. “Christine?”

She shuddered and leaned her head back into his touch. “It was fine,” she said softly, a slight hitch in her breath, as he carefully gathered and twisted her hair into the topknot she favored while it dried fully, securing it with her wrap. His task completed, he let his hands drift down to her shoulders, kneading gently. “What’s wrong, baby?” he breathed against her neck.  
She pulled away from his hands and turned to face him; her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

“Nothing’s wrong. You’re too good to me and I love you,” she insisted, pressing her lips to his before he could speak again. When they’d pulled apart, she stood quickly. “Go get ready for bed.”

He’d hesitated as she turned back the bed sheets, before he disappeared into the bathroom uncertainly. When he slipped into bed beside her a short time later, his own hair damp and mouth tasting of toothpaste, she’d been curled on her side in the middle of the mattress. He still wanted her. The stirring he’d felt when he watched her drying her hair earlier had returned in full force, and tension coiled in his groin. He kissed the back of her neck, and breathed in her scent. “Christine?” He settled a hand on her hip, and she exhaled sharply. Her small hand moved to rest over his, but she remained silent.  
Erik felt an icy tendril of worry snake through his heart. “Angel, if you don’t tell me what I did wrong…”

She squeezed the arm over her hip, and then raised her hand to where his head was over her shoulder. She traced the shell of his ear as she sighed heavily. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Erik. I’m being stupid and selfish.”

“Christine, I don’t underst--”

She tightened a hand into his damp hair. “I’ve never actually had to compete for your attention before,” she interrupted in a strained voice. 

“My attention? What do y--”

“Erik, I said I’m just being stupid. I’m glad you have a friend,” she interrupted him again. She exhaled hard.

 

“A friend? Wait, do you mean MEG? Christine, Meg is _your _friend. Oh my god, Christine, are you jealous?!”__

____

____

The hand in his hair immediately disentangled itself and pulled away harshly. “I said I was being stupid, Erik. You don’t need to rub my face in it!” she snapped.

He couldn’t help laughing. He knew it would only serve to anger her, but christ, he couldn’t help it. “Oh, my sweet angel!” he laughed, as she stiffened in his arms. He snaked his arms around her and pulled her flush against him. “If you think for even a second,” he purred into her neck, punctuating each word with a kiss to her throat and shoulders, “that you are without *kiss* every *kiss* inch *kiss* of my full attention *kiss* and adoration, you are out of your beautiful *kiss* head.” He pressed his hips forward, letting her fully feel his need for her.

“You’re very mean,” she grumbled, rocking her bottom back against his erection. “Every inch, huh?” He groaned at the pressure and canted his hips forward. His hands found their way under her shirt to cup the full breasts that had ignited his lust earlier. He began thrusting lightly against her as his long fingers caressed her breasts, teasing her nipples into hard peaks. The soft sighs she made drove him mad, and he pulled her tighter against him as he desperately sought friction against his throbbing length.

“Erik, stop,” she laughed, stilling his hips with a firm hand. “You're going to make a mess and need another shower.” She reached back and gave him a squeeze through his pants, making him moan. “You're hard as a rock,” she tsked, before she curled her legs up and shimmied out of her shorts beneath the covers. He rucked his pajama pants down to the top of his thighs, and this time when she pressed back on him, his heated flesh met her cool nakedness. She lifted her leg slightly, helping him slide into her.

“ _Fuck _, Christine,” he groaned desperately. It was tight, so _deliciously _tight with them spooned on their sides, and he knew he wouldn't last long. His blood was too heated, the throbbing of his heartbeat like a dull roar in his ears and all he wanted to do was pump into her until he cooled or went unconscious, perhaps both. He moved a hand to her hot center, rubbing in tight circles until he was able to thrust into her with a bit less friction, her body's response to his touch providing a smoother glide. He wasn't able to press into her as deeply as he normally liked, but the squeeze and pressure of this angle had him seeing stars. He had to force himself to mind his tempo, to think of her pleasure.____

_____ _

_____ _

He slowed his snapping hips, despite his body's vigorous protest, to refocus on rubbing at her heat, to help her catch up with him, when she stilled his hand. “Erik, the sooner you come, the sooner we can go to sleep,” she said matter-of-factly. 

He knew he should insist on seeing to her pleasure, should stop and use his tongue on her,or adjust their position…but his balls felt painfully full, and she wanted to sleep. It was all the permission he needed. He began to pump into her rhythmically, a bruising hand on her hip, increasing his speed until he felt himself tightening, tightening, and then---blissful release. He came into her with a groan, burying his face in her neck as he rode out his orgasm and then the aftershocks of pleasure that wracked his body as she shifted slightly.

Heaviness immediately descended on him as she pulled from his arms. He grunted as he released from her body, and she slid out of bed. He watched her adorable rear as she padded to the bathroom to clean herself up, and through the haze that enveloped his mind, he had a flicker of guilt. Maintenance sex. That's what that had been, he thought blearily as he listened to the water turn on in the bathroom. She hadn’t climaxed, but had helped him to so they could both get a good night’s sleep. He’d normally feel affronted at the thought of leaving her unsatisfied, but he felt so blissfully spent, he couldn't find it in himself to care as sleepiness clouded his mind. He watched her come back to bed through heavily hooded eyes.

“Babe, you're pathetic,” she'd laughed, looking him over as she climbed back into bed. His softened member still lay exposed over the top of his pulled down pajamas, and she gently tucked him back in, tugging the pants back up before placing a kiss to his ruined forehead, and a softer kiss to his thin lips. _Tomorrow _, he thought with his last vestiges of consciousness. Tomorrow he'd spend the whole day with his face between her legs to make it up to her. He mumbled unintelligible words of love as she turned in his arms, back to spoons, and sleep claimed him.__


	4. Chapter 4

“C’mon, let me see it! Pull it out and let me see.”

“Meg, I said _no_.”

Meg pouted at him, a mischievous glint in her dark eyes. “Please! I want to see it! I promise I won’t tell Christine you showed it to me.”

Erik’s eyes scanned their surroundings nervously. The well-dressed suburbanite feeding her toddler a messy looking slop at the next table had raised an eyebrow in concern and was shooting worried glances toward them. “Will you _please_ lower your voice.”

The problem with being on intersession was all of their normal haunts around campus became overrun with the suburban stroller brigade; trendy young mothers eager to show they weren’t afraid of coming downtown, wanting to be seen eating and shopping in the “edgier” parts of the city that they never dared venture to when school was in session and the streets full of students.

“C’mon Erik. You know you’re dying to show it to somebody! I swear I won’t touch it, I just want to see how big it is.” Meg’s eyes sparkled and from the way she giggled, it was clear she knew exactly what she was doing. “Unless you _want_ me to touch it, of course…okay, on the count of three, just whip it out for me, alright? 1...2...”

“Meg!” he let out a strangled cry, and made the mistake of raising his head and locking eyes with the woman next to them. The vague concern she may have had at the thought of a stranger exposing himself near her child was one thing, but a masked stranger exposing himself was clearly a cause for panic. Erik watched her eyes widen in fear and the way she frantically began to gather her things, securing her slop-covered offspring in its carriage, and hurrying to the front bar.

_Shit_.

“You’re going to get me arrested!” Erik hissed furiously. Meg was doubled over, trying in vain to contain her mirth, tears of laughter streaming down her face. He could see the frantic mother motioning back to their table, her cheeks flushed with color as she complained to the owner.

“Oh please! It serves her right for eavesdropping. We’re in here like a hundred times a month, Roger would have to shut down if he lost us as customers.” Sure enough, Roger, the mustachioed owner, was making his way back to them with an annoyed look on his face. 

“Professor, are you pulling your wang out in the middle of my dining room?” he asked Erik in a put-upon tone once he’d reached their table, causing Meg to lose her composure once more, clutching at her sides.

Erik and Christine had been coming to this little cafe on a weekly basis for over a year, and he and Meg had made it their regular meeting spot for weeks now. It had the perfect proximity of being a block away from the school of dance to and just 4 blocks from Erik and Christine’s apartment. The brightly colored chandeliers and flamenco music were an odd juxtaposition to the menu of afternoon tea and specialty cocktails, but that oddness was what the trio like best about the place. That and the narrow dining room with direct access to the front and back doors, but Erik rarely voiced that aspect of his appreciation.

“Roger, this is a button fly. Do you know how long that would take?”

Meg dissolved into giggles again and Roger let out a honk of laughter, and walked away muttering about bored housewives starting drama wherever they went.

Erik leveled his most malevolent gaze on Meg and slowly sipped his gin blossom. She held his eyes defiantly, hers sparkling with mischief. He couldn’t help but notice her delight in the chaos she had caused. They were far too well-matched he thought, not for the first time. Had he known Meg during his misspent youth, he probably would have been locked up for far worse than mere felonious assault. _That_ had been in self defense at least. With Meg at his side arson, grand theft, and criminal trespassing would have all been possibilities; inevitably he’d have taken the rap for all of it. _Always a schmuck for a pretty face_. He knew she wouldn’t let this go until he gave in, which he eventually would. Sighing heavily, he pulled out what she so desperately wanted to see. 

The cobalt blue velvet box had become a leaden pressure that he always kept on his person, constantly feeling the dragging weight of his own anxiety and ineptitude along with it. He had thought maybe the Messiah opening would have been his chance: Christine would have been flush with excitement after her first featured solo with a professional company, they could have gone up to the roof and he would have kissed her under the stars before getting down on bended knee...but his hesitation in the hallway had been his undoing; the press of families and well-wishers in the reception area had stilled his breath and set his heart hammering in his chest. How could he walk into that room, brightly lit, full of Christmas dressings, and darken it with his monstrousness? She had looked more like an angel that night than he’d ever before seen, and he would appear at her side like a wraith escaped from the sepulchre; eyes would turn towards them and narrow, and wonder what exactly was wrong with the beautiful singer that had astonished them with her angel’s voice, and…

And then he’d seen her, and he didn’t care what anyone else thought, because she loved him, and he’d wanted to go to her, to take her in his arms and tell her how enchanting she’d been on the stage---and _then_ he’d taken in her furrowed brow and distressed eyes, worried that he wasn’t there and she’d been left alone...and he knew that he had ruined that moment too, when her eyes should have been shining in happiness and pride instead of darkened with tension and disappointment---because of him. Always because of him. And so the ring had stayed in his pocket, another moment passed.

 

“Oh, wow,” Meg breathed reverently. The ring was a stunning piece of artwork, Erik had to admit. A slim platinum band held up the flawless 2 carat diamond, haloed by brilliant sapphires in a latticed setting, artful swirls of sapphire and platinum gracing the sides. The art deco style seemed at once old-fashioned and timeless, and he desperately wanted to see it on Christine’s hand. “It’s amazing. She’s going to love it.”

He closed the box softly and returned it to the safety of his pocket. “I hope so, “ he replied quietly. Nothing was said for several minutes, both of them lost in thought, when Erik was startled out of his reverie by Meg’s hand, which had closed over his where it rested near his martini glass. 

“Erik, what are you waiting for?” Meg was suddenly serious, all traces of teasing now gone.

“I...I don’t know.” His eyes burned, his throat suddenly thick, and he was horrified to realize how very close he was to tears. It was too much; the ring, his inability to just ask her, the gentle pressure of Meg’s hand...it was all suddenly far too much. He jerked his hand away from hers, gripping his glass and throwing back the rest of his drink. The gin burned down his throat and he used the moment to collect himself. “We need to get going,” he said in a clipped voice, back in control, emotions firmly tamped down. 

“Okay hold on, I have cash...” she rummaged through her bag, pulling out a fistful of crinkled bills.

“Put that away,” he snapped in a harsh tone he didn’t truly mean, dropping a large bill down with their check, not caring about the change, and turned briskly for the door. He sailed past the jocular bartender, past the friendly girl with all the piercings at the counter, past Roger’s words of parting. He desperately needed to be out of that room, to get air, to be away from Meg, away from _anyone_. 

He was barely conscious of her slight form struggling to keep up with him as he stormed up the sidewalk walk with long strides, hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans; didn’t realize that she had given up after the first block. It was another two blocks before he realized the sharp December wind was cutting through his thin button down and that he’d left his coat behind. Meg finally caught up with him as he waited for the light to change at an intersection, his nihilism not quite reaching the level of desiring to walk into oncoming traffic just yet. 

She said nothing when she arrived beside him. He looked down to see her clutching his heavy coat under her arms, her giant dance bag swung across her body, cheeks reddened from walking against the wind, and crippling guilt seized his heart. She didn’t deserve his harsh words or anger; the only person he was angry with was himself, after all. They were half a block away from the apartment at that point, and Erik realized she had gone completely out of her way to follow him, both her campus apartment and the dance studio being clear in the opposite direction.

He took the coat from her, and quickly caught her hand when she went to turn away, threading his long fingers tightly with her tiny ones. He pulled her with him across the intersection; didn’t let go of her hand until they had arrived at the apartment building, taken the elevator up to the seventh floor of the parking garage, and came up to his car. He opened the passenger door wordlessly, and pulled the giant bag off her shoulder. She didn’t ask questions, just got in. They rode in silence until they’d reached the light just before the dance studio. “Are you going back to the studio, or do you want to go home?” he asked quietly.

“Home is fine,” she answered just as softly. When he pulled up outside the familiar quad, he gripped her hand again. She met his eyes and returned the firm pressure. And he knew nothing more needed to be said for Meg Giry to understand how sorry he was. She exited into the biting cold with her bag and hopped lightly up the steps, as he rolled the passenger side window down and leaned over the car’s center console. A movement in the curtain behind her caught his eye and he saw Cecile’s face peeking out. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at 6:30, yeah?”

Meg had turned on the top step after glancing back to see Jamie’s face appear behind the curtain next to Cecile. “It’s a date!” she called back with a mischievous smile and a wave. He waited until she was safely inside before he pulled away into the snow.   
.  
.  
.  
There were some weekends when Erik got out of bed on a Friday feeling energized for the days ahead. Ample time to devote to compositions, spending time with Christine, occasionally even relaxing---all things he could look forward to. He already knew this would not be one of those weekends. Tonight he'd be picking up Meg to attend Christine's last Messiah performance, and following night was the dreaded double date at the speakeasy. Christine's wassailing group had a party to perform at on Sunday, and she was soloing the midnight mass for her church gig on Christmas Eve. Thankfully the holiday was in just a few days, for Erik was ready to have the whole overly busy season firmly in his rearview.

Things had started off promisingly enough. Christine was a habitual early riser, but that day had wanted to sleep in so that she'd be well rested for her performance that night. Sleeping in to Christine meant still being in bed at eight a.m., so there was plenty of day ahead of them. He'd stayed in bed with her, her head on his chest with his arm around her waist, and once she'd woken, he got to make good on his promise of spending quality time with his twisted face between her thighs. She'd gripped his hair so tightly, at one point he was convinced she'd partially scalped him---which was especially concerning, as a full head of dark hair was one of his few positive physical attributes---and he would definitely have a bruise on his back from where her heels had repeatedly sought purchase. He'd brought her to orgasm twice with his tongue, stopping only when she'd insisted she was too over-sensitised for him to continue, chiding him not to be so smug. She'd pulled him up and urged him to settle on top of her, and they'd made love lazily. They dozed for another hour, warm and contented, and Erik would have been happy to freeze time and stay in that moment forever.

 

Christine and Meg were going shopping that afternoon to pick out accessories for their outfits for the double date, and for any last minute Christmas gifts they needed. All of his presents for Christine were already wrapped and secured in the trunk of his car, away from her snooping eyes. It occurred to him after they'd left that he ought to buy something for Meg. After all, he was pretty sure he'd actually seen her more than his girlfriend in the past two months. 

But what? He'd never had to buy gifts for anyone before Christine, and that was certainly different than buying a present for Meg. He knew Christine. Meg was a mystery to him, and was Christine’s friend besides. He wasn't sure what her interests were outside of dance, (he knew she loved the art museum, and would often go to the park to sketch, but that hardly seemed useful.) He didn’t know how she spent her time, (when she had breaks in the studio, she liked to go next door to the School of Art’s historical fashion display and marvel over the details of dresses from the turn of the century, but what good was knowing that?!) She liked jazz and showtunes, horror and heist movies; favored soft pastels and tiny animals...she loved ordering the daintiest of tea sandwiches and wore a soft perfume reminiscent of white florals and summer sun. 

She was practically a stranger, and Erik was at a loss. 

He’d have to take a stab in the dark, hoping to guess right, he supposed. It was too late for Amazon...he’d need to go out, possibly even to the _mall_. The press of people in packed corridors, migraine-inducing fluorescent lights, noisy children, impatient shoppers pushing past his uncertainty with their armloads of parcels, their staring eyes...the room suddenly seemed too warm and his pulse was beginning to race. His hands closed like talons around the edge of the kitchen sink. Calm. He needed to be calm, could not fall apart today. He needed to control his breathing, to focus on one breath at a time, in and out, slowing his heart. Practice “mindfulness,” which was the bullshit advice the doctor he’d started seeing at the beginning of the school year kept telling him.

When he’d gone to see Khan at the end of the summer, he had been prepared to grovel, to beg for his job and eat the coldest of crow. Nadir had let him grovel, too. He’d waited until Erik had finished his whole apology spiel and then let him squirm for a long moment while he took his time pulling a bottle of Armagnac from his desk drawer, along with a cut glass tumbler. He poured himself two fingers, returned the bottle to its drawer and crossed the room to look out the window. Erik had waited, fidgeting in the silence, until it seemed like the older man was never going to turn around. His shoulders had slumped in defeat as he rose from his chair.

“I’ll...I’ll just clean out my office, then.” 

“Erik, are you aware that this is the School of Music?” Khan asked sharply as Erik had turned dejectedly towards the door. “Do you suppose you’re the first egotistical blowhard to come through these doors? That you’re the only person to have ever thrown a temper tantrum over a poor rehearsal? Because if that is in fact what you think, that is an impressive level of conceit, even for you.”

Erik swallowed hard as Khan turned to face him at last. “You are actually good at this, Erik. Are you aware that your Lit section for the new semester is the only one that’s full? That there was a wait list? Do you know that if you didn’t try to be so damned _unlikable_ all the time, you might actually--” Nadir’s voice had been steadily rising, but he cut off sharply when he saw the way the younger man winced and instinctively flinched away. Khan closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He took a healthy gulp of his drink and continued in a lower, calmer voice. “You’ve created your own self-fulfilling prophecy, Erik. You expect people to treat you poorly, and you behave in a way that leaves them no other choice. And despite that, you’re still good at this. If you want to quit, by all means, quit. You won’t hurt my feelings. Finish your bloody doctorate, already--you were more than halfway done when you abandoned it for that damned composition program.”

Erik had been rooted to the spot. _If he wasn’t fired, Christine would never need to know what he’d done_. “I’m n-not fired, then?”

Khan sighed in exasperation. “No Erik, you’re not fired.” His relief had been palpable, and he’d stumbled a step back to the wall to hold himself up. “But,” Khan continued, “I am going to make a request. I am not asking you this as your supervisor, or even as your mentor. I’m making this request as someone who has known you for more than a decade, as a friend.” Nadir had made an imploring gesture at him “You need to get some help, Erik. You need to be better medicated.” Erik had scowled unseen at this, as Nadir continued steadily. “You’ve been on a roller coaster for the past six months, maybe longer, and it’s _time to get off_. You can’t enjoy living this way. And if you don’t want to do it for yourself, then do it for that young woman. She deserves to have the best version of you, and this is not it.”

He’d reflexively tightened at the mention of Christine. “And therapy’s the answer? You think drugs are going to solve all my problems?” he’d spat bitterly, motioning to the mask. But even as the sneering words left his mouth, he’d thought of the two weeks he'd spent completely out of his mind with grief, stalking Christine as she vacationed; the few times he’d felt her sadly tracing the scars on his wrists when she thought he was asleep, how she’d never asked and he’d never volunteered the when or the why. His stomach bunched and knew Khan was right.

“It’s not going to fix your face, Erik, no,’ Khan continued doggedly. “But it might make you happier. Don’t you _want_ to be happy?”

And so the appointment had been made and kept, and he diligently went to his monthly follow up. He declined the therapy, but swallowed two pills more every morning than he had when the school year had started, and although he was loathe to admit it, it had somewhat helped. The panic attacks had slowed, Christine’s insistence on Saturday date nights not as traumatic as they’d been before. His paranoia would likely never leave him entirely, nor would the self-loathing...but it didn’t consume him the way it once had, and only occasionally, like the night of Christine’s performance, did it leave him frozen and helpless anymore. 

That did _not_ mean he was ready for a trip to the mall three days before Christmas. He’d have to think on what to do for Meg.

Erik was able to spend a few solid hours working on his concerto before Christine came home from shopping, when she promptly entered her pre-performance mood, with which he was well acquainted. He did his best to make himself as scarce as possible without actually leaving the apartment (which he'd learned was not the thing to do, lest he be accused of being _unsupportive_ ,) at one point sinking to the floor near the dishwasher with his laptop. He was not “making noise” at the piano--which was _disruptive_ , nor was he in her direct line of sight--which was _annoying_. Christine would always soften just before leaving, and he was able to send her off with a Toi Toi and a solid kiss for luck, now that he was no longer a disruptive, annoying, unsupportive brute of a man.

Finally free to move about the apartment unimpeded, he showered with his expensive sandalwood soap, and shaved away any hint of stubble. He donned a fitted black suit, the one Christine claimed emphasised his broad shoulders and long legs, and a deep wine colored shirt, his only concession to the holiday. His wingtips had a mirror shine, dark hair brushed back off his high forehead, leather mask firmly in place. He smelled good, was immaculately dressed and well groomed. It was the best he could do with what he had to work with.

Their tickets for the evening were center orchestra, which was a sharp departure from Erik's normal seat in a far corner on the end on an aisle, where he could slip in just before a performance and slide out like a shadow. But then he'd learned that Meg had never been to the symphony, had never sat anywhere other than the balcony for a performance she was not in, and he had decided that simply would not do. He'd suffer the indignity of being exposed and folding his legs under his chin for the evening.

He pulled up outside Meg's campus apartment a few minutes before 6:30, and sent her a text alerting her of his arrival. When she hadn't responded at 6:35, he found himself on the stoop palming the buzzer. “Meg, your date is here!” a voice called out just before the door was pulled open. Jamie's shocked face met his, mouth hanging open with saucer-wide eyes.  
He remembered the last time he'd been in this apartment, the night Christine had moved out, and didn't find that he felt the need to be polite to this girl. Fortunately, Meg appeared behind Jamie's elbow just then and shoved past her. 

“Wow, you look really good. You, sir, certainly clean up nice!”

Erik flushed at her words but offered his arm all the same. “Shall we?”

Meg flashed a deviant smile, and slipped her tiny arm through his. “Okay, bye girls, don't wait up!” she called gaily over her shoulder. 

The door had barely clicked shut when he heard Cecile’s voice. “Was that Christine's freaky boyfriend?!” and Jamie's affirmative shriek. 

“You did that on purpose,” he grumbled as he opened the passenger side door for Meg.

“I certainly did. Oh man, I wish you could have taken a picture of her face! Just think, by the time classes start up again, everyone will think you're banging a vocal major AND a dance major. Your classes will be standing room only!”

“ _Meg_!” She giggled at the choked noise he made, clearly enjoying herself. “At the school where I teach. Where I have to follow a code of conduct.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Yeah, but you and Chris--”

“I was still technically a student, idiot. Which I am no longer.”

She didn't argue further, but began giggling again a few minutes later, unable to help herself. “I don't care what you say, I am the best wingwoman. Do you know how many girls will sign up to take classes with the masked Lothario?”

He gripped the steering wheel with whitened knuckles, feeling heat up to the tips of his ears as she continued. “And you do look really good, you need to wear a three piece suit every day. People will show up in class knowing the rumors, see you and think 'wow--tall, dark, and handsome.’ Unfortunately, it'll all fall apart when--”

He held his breath, quite unprepared for the way his heart clenched, for how much this little slip of a girl had the power to hurt his feelings.

“--you open your big mouth and shatter the illusion.” She smiled up at him sweetly, jet eyes glittering. He glared.

“You may be shocked to hear that 'tall, dark, and handsome’ is rarely applied to a man in a mask,” he mumbled darkly, as they arrived at the concert hall.

“Oh, that's what they think when they see you from _behind_. When you turn around it's adjusted to 'tall, dark, and mysterious’ which, alas, also cannot bear the weight of the asshattery that is your personality.” 

She took his arm again as they ascended the stone steps of the concert hall a few minutes later, suddenly seeming ill at ease, tugging her dress self-consciously. “Erik, are you sure I look okay?”

“Of course you do. Why, what's wrong?” his eyes narrowed in concern at the way she worried her lower lip with her teeth, all traces of her earlier mischief gone.

“This is very fancy,” she mumbled nervously. “These kinds of people make me feel like trash.” Her eyes followed a trio of haughty middle-aged women in long, formal dresses, gliding like queens through the doors. 

In contrast, the full skirt of Meg’s deep purple dress swirled around her knees. Erik objectively though that perhaps the fabric was too light for the winter season, and it was certainly not as formal some of the other women’s dresses, not as well made...but the inky color set off her dark eyes and sable hair, and her graceful arms and strong, slim calves gave her the appearance of a particularly alluring wood nymph. “You are a vision of loveliness,” he pronounced with finality. She still seemed apprehensive, so with a firm hand on her lower back, he steered them to the bar. “Come, Marguerite. Liquid courage is what we do best together. And besides, everyone looks fancier holding a champagne flute.” 

They had only just sipped their drinks when Erik heard a familiar voice calling out to him.  
“Hello, Sir! I suspected I’d run into you this evening!” Erik turned in slight exasperation at the address. Daniel Barbezac stood there with a glass of wine, looking terribly pleased with himself. 

“Good evening, Mr. Barbezac. I see you took my recommendation of the symphony to heart.”

“I did indeed! My parents are most looking forward to this evening’s performance as well, based on your... _enthusiasm_. They’ll be terribly cross if I don’t introduce you.” 

As Daniel spoke, a woman in a long, sequined evening gown moved up to the bar. The glamour of her dress was enough to leave Meg feeling cowed again, and Erik felt her small hand wrap around his arm again. It was a bit disconcerting to know that he was effectively being used as a large, bony teddy bear. 

Daniel suddenly noticed the petite young woman behind Erik, when her small hand appeared in the crook of his arm. “How rude of me, I didn’t mean to interrupt your conver...sation.” The young man’s mouth went dry and he stammered over his words when Erik stepped aside and the most enchantingly lovely girl he’d ever laid eyes on was revealed to him. 

Erik watched in amusement as the young intern’s mouth open and closed several times like a fish, and decided to take pity and made introductions. Meg gave a dazzling smile as she offered her hand, and at that moment, the lights dimmed, signaling it was time to take their seats. “Do come find us during intermission, I’d hate for your parents to feel slighted” Erik said, putting a hand at the beautiful girl’s back, leaving the young man gaping as he and Meg headed into the auditorium. 

_How_?! Daniel was at a loss to explain how the moody masked man had a different beautiful woman on his arm every time one blinked. The busty blonde singer he had met the other night, Christine, the one performing this evening...she and DeBecque had seemed completely besotted with each other, and Pope had alluded to them being in a serious relationship...perhaps this girl tonight, this tiny dark fairy...perhaps just a friend? A relative? Hope lifted his heart. _Intermission_ , he thought as he took his own seat. _Marguerite_. He’d get to see her again at intermission, and would endeavor to not make a fool of himself this time.


	5. Chapter 5

Saturday dawned grey and blustery with the promise of more snow. The sky was light enough to brighten the dark bedroom, and Erik grimaced as his eyes were assaulted by the open curtains as he twisted in bed. He wondered for a moment if they'd been left open last night, but then he registered the sound of cheerful humming, and knew that wasn't the case. He groaned and buried his head under his pillow as the curtains on the other side of the room were thrown open.

The night had far exceeded Erik’s expectations. Meg had been ecstatic with their seats, and he’d watched Christine with rapturous eyes. Erik had the vague notion of other people on the stage, but they were indistinct shadows in the light of his angel. When the house lights came up during intermission, Meg had turned to him with excitement. “She’s doing so well! They all sound amazing...it’s so different being on this side of the stage, but I like it!” They’d made their way back to the bar for more champagne, and Erik noticed immediately when she’d stiffened in the presence of several affluent-looking older couples near them. Erik leaned an elbow on the edge of the bar and bent until his head was level with hers. 

“Meg, none of these people here can do what you do,” he’d murmured in her ear. “None of them have the training, or the discipline, or the _artistry_ to do what you do. They only consume, they have to buy art. _We’re_ the creators. Don’t ever forget that.”

She shivered at his breath on her neck, and gripped his arm tightly as she nodded. 

“I hope I’m not interrupting?” Daniel had appeared at their side as Erik slowly straightened back up to his full height. Erik noticed that the young man’s eyes held a hint of a challenge as he looked back and forth between Erik and Meg.

“Not at all. Ms. Giry and I were just discussing how nice it is to see so many patrons of the arts here for our symphony tonight. Are you and your parents enjoying the performance so far?”

The parents in question were hovering just a few steps away from their son. Erik downed the last of his champagne and mentally steeled himself. These were Christine’s future patrons, and he needed to impress them. He swiftly turned to the bar to set his empty glass down, and caught Meg’s eye. He tried his best to convey the message he needed her to absorb. _These people are very important_. Meg gave a minute nod. There was no other reason why Erik would willingly parade himself in front of people, if they were not someone he needed something from. Daniel smiled broadly, extending an arm open and right on cue, Mr. and Mrs. Barbezac swept forward. 

“Mr. DeBecque, we are so _thrilled_ to meet you!” Vivienne Barbezac trilled. She immediately launched into the story of how the family had been vacationing at their home in Vienna when they’d caught Erik’s performance in Leopoldstadt, so many years ago. “We were _amazed_ when we found out you taught at the school right in our own backyard! We are so fortunate to have someone of your talent helping to shape the young musicians in our artistic community.”

“Vivienne, you’re embarrassing the man!” Richard Barbezac shook Erik’s hand warmly. “And this lovely young woman is?”

“Marguerite Giry,” Erik introduced, yanking Meg out from where she was sheltering behind him. “Ms. Giry dances with the city ballet, and is a current principal with the Krakowiak group. Perhaps you’ll see her in a performance soon, Mrs. Barbezac.”

Meg slipped into performance mode, adjusting her feet into a pose and proffered her hand to each of the Barbezacs with her winningest smile. When she turned to Daniel, she laughed a little, having already made his introduction. He took her hand quickly, before she could pull it away and brought it to his lips with a slight bow. “Hello again, Marguerite.”

_Well, this is extremely interesting_ , Erik thought. He needed to clarify his relationship with Meg, quickly. “Marguerite is also the dearest friend of my Christine.” Erik took note of Daniel’s relieved exhalation.

“Ms. Daaé, Mother, the soloist this evening. She and Mr. DeBecque are…” Daniel trailed off, not entirely sure how to define the relationship between the lovely soprano and the odd masked man.

“Practically engaged!” Meg cut in, saving him and smiling beatifically. 

“Of course! Such a glorious voice! What a talented couple you make. Mr. DeBecque, it is just a _crime_ that our arts community does not have an opera company as one of it’s crown jewels! Why, Daniel and I have been discussing it for weeks...when our committees resume after the new year, I fully intend to question what we need to do to rectify such a gross oversight in our fundraising. Daniel has been telling us how knowledgeable you are...if it’s not too much of an imposition, I would love to pick your brain on your thoughts.”

_Yes_. Daniel smiled widely at him, and Erik got the distinct impression that his look was one of triumph, as though...he just delivered his parents into Erik’s hands. _Very_ interesting indeed. 

“Madame, I would be honored,” Erik assured Vivienne Barbezac, taking her hand gallantly in parting as the lights dimmed.

.  
.

After the performance, Christine has been so full of adrenaline, she'd bounced in her seat as Erik drove. She'd asked Meg to go to dinner with them, but the little ballerina had begged off, citing an early rehearsal. When they'd dropped her off at her apartment, Christine had noted Cecile and Jamie's faces pressed in the glass of the upstairs window.

“That's because _your_ friend told them I was her date,” he'd snorted. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he worried about whether Christine would react the same way as she did that past Thursday, but fortunately her eyes had sparkled in amusement and she'd laughed delightedly as he relayed the whole story of Meg's earlier mischief. 

“Oh my goodness, she's terrible! I can't wait to see what your classes are like next semester...my boyfriend, the 'masked Lothario’!”

_Everyone's a damned comedian_ , he thought sourly, annoyed at both the joke and the term _boyfriend_.

Christine was famished and called the Italian place next door for take out, devouring her food as she chattered about the performance between bites. She relayed how excited the director was to have her audition to solo again for the spring season, and Erik made a mental note to start working on the St Matthew's Passion with her. _This is what she was made for_ , he thought, as she recounted the mini meltdown the choral director had during the sound check.

 

Food wasn't the only thing she had a healthy appetite for that night, and as soon as they'd moved from the kitchen to the sofa, she began divesting him of clothing. 

“You have a _lot_ of energy this evening, my dear,” he growled against her throat, as she made quick work of his buttons. Her t-shirt had been discarded somewhere between the kitchen and living room, and her bra landed somewhere in the hallway when he tossed it over his shoulder.

“I can think of several ways you can help me burn it off,” she leered, biting his shoulder as she pulled his belt open.

They had sex in the living room, her astride his lap, pressing him into the upholstery as she bounced and writhed above him; again a short while later in the shower as they readied for bed, her braced against the wall as he took her from behind, the thundering water swallowing the sound of their moans; and one final time in bed, slowly and sensually, her legs wrapped around him as they moved together, hours after they first arrived home. He was _exhausted_. When he'd woken sometime in the night to wet kisses being pressed to his chest, he'd rolled away from her in a huff. 

“Christine, I _can't_. I'm so dried out that my eyes are itchy, and I think you threw out my back. Between this morning and tonight, we’ve had more sex than some couples have in a month. _Go to sleep_.” She'd begrudgingly tucked into his side finally, and allowed him to shut his eyes.

He now peeped blearily out from under his pillow to the clock on the nightstand. _Seven thirty-six a.m. She's trying to kill me_. He felt a slender finger tickle up the sole of his foot that had been hanging off the edge of the bed and he shivered, pulling his knees to his chest under the blankets. 

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead!”

He burrowed further under his pillow, tightening the blankets around him. “Christine, it's the middle of the night,” he whined. His pillow was pulled away abruptly. 

“You're very cute with bed head,” she whispered, climbing on to the mattress. “Do you want me to make you some breakfast, babe?” 

Long arms shot out, wrapping around her, and he dragged her under the blankets as she shrieked and squealed. “What I want is for you to sleep in like a normal person,” he grumbled as he pulled the blankets over their heads. She giggled as he snuggled back down, using the soft fullness of her breasts as his pillow. Her fingers carded through his hair, lightly scratching his scalp before they moved down his back. He groaned, pressing his face into her cleavage. They stayed that way for several comfortable minutes, him lying pillowed on her chest as she scratched his back gently. He was so comfortable he began to doze off again, when she tugged on the hair at the back of his head, instantly waking him. He nuzzled her soft skin with his cavern of a nose before whispering against her.

“Christine? Are you going to let me go back to sleep?”

“Nope,” she mumbled into his hair, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

“Then I want waffles.”  
.  
.

 

“Babe, you got a card,” she announced, coming back into the apartment from the mailbox down in the lobby. Erik scowled at her appearance, still in the thin tank top and and tiny cotton shorts she’d put on that morning before she’d woken him up. Her only concession to the weather had been her fuzzy UGG boots and an unzipped hoodie.

“Is that seriously how you’re traipsing around the building?”

She just rolled her eyes and dropped the stack of junk mail and advertisements into the recycling bin. “Shut up and open your christmas card. Who do you think it’s from?

”Ellen Donahue,” he said automatically, not needing to open the card. Christine had decorated the doorway between the living room and hallway with all of the Christmas cards “they” had received. She had cards from Aunt Val, her cousins, an uncle from her mother’s side who lived across the country and was mostly a stranger, friends, several people from the church where she sang, and so on. The doorway was full. His name had been on exactly two cards: the one from Val, which had been addressed to both of them, and an impersonal one from the School of Music, that all faculty received. The card he now held in his hands was the only one of the season that was specifically and personally addressed to him.

Christine sat herself across his lap and put her arms around his neck. “And who, pray tell, is Ellen Donahue? A former paramour I need to be concerned about?”

 

He scowled again, as she knew very well he had no “former paramours.”

“Her late father was my grandfather’s driver. He was...always kind to me.”

Despite his now towering height, Erik had been an extremely small child, a “wee little thing” as his great-aunt Paulina had called him when he lived in her care. The first year after her death, at a boarding school several states away from the only home he’d ever known, had been utterly terrifying for the little boy. He had been privately educated at home until that point, and it was the first time he had been surrounded by other children--who he’d quickly discovered had a vast propensity for cruelty and violence. The first time he had to wear the mask all day--hot and uncomfortable, leaving his skin sore and irritated, but too afraid to take it off, save for the few moments he was able to steal in the bathrooms once everyone else was in bed. The first time he had the knowledge that with his great aunt gone, he was utterly without love in the world. 

Much to his grandparent’s chagrin, sending Erik to boarding school necessitated having him home for the short winter and summer intersessions. It was during this brief time at “home” that Jack had become a central figure in Erik’s young life. That first winter, the black town car had glided onto the campus to whisk him away to his family’s massive estate. The rough looking man had shaken the solemn little boy’s hand before loading him into the backseat.

The man knew about the mask, but his eyes had narrowed at the busted lower lip, and the bruise blossoming down the side of the boy’s chin; parting gifts from the three larger classmates with whom he shared a dormitory. Upon arrival at the sprawling home, his grandmother had taken one look at her masked grandson and fled to a different wing of the house; Erik did not see her again for the duration of his two weeks there. Jack had mumbled something to Erik’s grandfather, and the older man had approached with hard amber-colored eyes. He gripped the little boy’s chin, raising Erik’s head slightly, his mouth set in a firm line. “Take the boy out back and teach him to throw a punch,” he’d ordered, and Jack and been quick to comply.

Thus began the strange amalgamation of Jack’s unsavory instruction and his grandfather’s cold, detached affection that lasted until the old man died when Erik was fifteen. His grandfather insisted he be able to defend himself against future attacks, lest he disgrace himself and thus the family name. Jack had taught him to fight, and how to fight dirty. By the time he returned to school after his first summer at the family estate, Erik had learned how to attack viciously if the need arose. 

The brief amount of time he had spent at his grandparent’s home was never what Erik would have considered ‘happy’--he had been happy with Aunt Paulina. He’d never had playmates, but he had toys and games, and she would read him stories and sit by his side at the piano to correct his hands, and call him ‘her little dear.’ He hadn’t had to wear the mask when he was in the house, and he had a massive wooded lot to play in and explore. He would spend hours outside pretending he was a lost adventurer, surviving in the wilderness on his own; or playing pirates, searching through the woods for buried treasure. Aunt Paulina would sit with him while he had supper, and then tuck him into bed after his bath. 

There were no such comforts in his grandfather’s home. That first night, Erik had been shown to the room that had been prepared for him--a giant, cavernous thing with nothing in it that indicated its inhabitant was to be a young boy. He had eaten by himself in the informal dining area off the kitchen, and upon returning to the huge empty room, he had found that a fire had been lit in the massive fireplace and the bedclothes turned down. He’d bathed in the attached ensuite, and then sat on the rug in front of the fire with a book. Eventually he realized no one was coming to check on him, and he’d climbed into the huge, cold bed. His time in the house was never happy...but it was safe. There were no children with cruel taunts and ready fists. His few possessions were left undisturbed. No one attempted to take his mask. No one paid him any attention at all, actually, other than Jack and occasionally his grandfather. It was freeing. 

When he’d learned of Erik’s advanced musical abilities, his grandfather had insisted on augmented instruction. While the other boys were sequestered for study period in the campus library, Erik was whisked away to work with his private tutor in the music room. The old man had been adamant that the boy be a virtuoso, sending him to study across Europe for several weeks every summer, and while it had felt cold at the time, terrifying for the little boy he had been, Erik was profoundly grateful for the opportunities that he had been afforded and the doors they’d opened. “You will make a name for yourself in this,” the old man had told him loftily, “and that will be your contribution to the family legacy. I’ll not have my only grandson frittering away his god given talents.”

By the time he was twelve, he had shed the slightness of his childhood, with long limbs and a rangy build. His formal education under Jack had included the finer points of handling a knife, until the gleaming blade of the stiletto he’d been gifted with was a deadly extension of his hand. Erik was fairly certain his grandfather was aware of these perfidious lessons, was possibly the instigator behind them in the early days. He never said as much, never said anything, really. He'd inquire a into Erik's marks for the current term, with a “no grandson of mine will be a simpleton,” and would give a grim nod of satisfaction at the news the boy excelled in all his classes, and Erik would see little of him after that.

 

Jack, for his part, was unbothered by the mask. He seemed to take an inordinate amount of enjoyment in imparting such knowledge as breaking and entering and pickpocketing to the boy. In addition to the switchblade, Erik’s first lock-picking set had come from the man. He learned how to slip soundlessly from rooms, to subdue would-be assailants, how to keep a sharp awareness of his surroundings. _Life isn’t gonna be easy for you, kid. Best you know how to deal with it, before it deals with you_.

His first sexual experience had come courtesy of Jack as well, in the form of an escort on his seventeenth birthday, when he’d been in his first year of undergrad. The woman had shown up at his off-campus apartment in the late afternoon with with three instructions: don’t touch the mask, show the kid a good time, and give him a note. 

_Happy birthday, kid. She’s paid for through the night, enjoy. --Jack_

As he was normally already packed off to Vienna or Paris to study during his mid-summer birthday, this was the first time the occasion had been acknowledged since he was very, very young. While he hadn’t relished the idea of losing his virginity to a prostitute, he’d been a typical seventeen year old--impossibly horny, and was starved for any type of affection. The woman had cooed about “how cute” he was, touselling his messy dark hair, and running her hands down his long thighs. He'd been mortified when he'd ejaculated almost immediately as she took his hard length in hand, but she'd just chuckled, not unkindly, as she stroked him through his climax. _It's alright baby, just enjoy it...we're going to give you plenty of chances to work on your control tonight_.

 

After his grandfather had died, Erik’s time spent at the family home also came to an end. His grandmother had never been able to bear his presence, either because of the horror the mask concealed or that this was the grandchild they’d been saddled with, or possibly the pain over knowing that she’d lost her only daughter after his birth. Erik had once chanced on his grandparents exchanging tight, vicious words culminating with the only time he could ever remember any mention being made of his mother, and then silence reigning over the house for the next two weeks. 

“It’s not the boy’s fault your daughter couldn’t take the most basic care of herself or keep that poison out of her veins while she carried him.” His grandfather had spat the words at his grandmother, and Erik never knew what had precipitated it. With the old man gone, he was not welcome to return. 

It had been Jack who had come to see him in the detention center, the summer after his grandfather's death. “Well kid, I turned you into a wrecking ball, that’s for damned sure. You did a number on those three. I’d be proud if they weren’t looking to try you as an adult. I hope that snake charmer appreciates you stickin’ your neck out. He’ll be testifying for you, if he knows what’s good for him.” 

Erik had flawlessly delivered his version of the events to the court in his honeyed voice: that he had come to the aid of a fellow musician who was being battered and was badly outnumbered. He omitted the fact that when one of the men had ripped his mask off and started screaming, rage had exploded behind his eyes and he hit the man's face until it was a fleshy pulp under his fist, and that the screams that had echoed off the alley walls had actually been his own.

Khan had indeed testified on his behalf, corroborating the younger man’s tale of self defense with wide green eyes, painting Erik as a Good Samaritan who'd probably saved his life. That coupled with several other factors--the estate’s shark attorney who had represented him, the judge who had known his grandfather, and the fact that the DeBecque name carried a fair amount of weight--ensured that Erik remained at the juvenile facility to serve the short remainder of his sentence, his record thoroughly expunged when he turned eighteen. He’d returned to a new school in the middle of his final year, and the three men he’d nearly beaten to death were never again mentioned. 

His grandmother had died two years after her husband, leaving Erik, not quite eighteen years old, as the sole beneficiary of the entire estate. The old man had left him everything--stocks, bonds, an extensive financial portfolio and real estate. The trust that had been established when he was still an infant would cover his educational and living expenses without him ever needing to touch a penny from the larger inheritance while he was in school, provided he didn't live extravagantly. The lawyers stepped in and a conservator appointed. Jack and the majority of the household staff had been summarily dismissed. The last time he’d seen the man, he’d shaken Erik’s hand, and looked him in the eye, as he’d always had. “I hope life brings you some happiness, kid.” 

Erik had personally saw to it that Jack and his family were well taken care of, and when he had succumbed to lung cancer when Erik was twenty, Erik ensured his widow and children were provided for. His daughter, Ellen, had sent her own children to private school thanks to DeBecque money, and always sent Erik a card at holiday time. 

He didn’t tell Christine any of this, of course.

“She sends me a card every year, Christine. You're just supremely unobservant.”

She gasped in mock offense, swatting his hip. “You _dare_ to speak to me in such a manner?! After I drag myself out of bed to slave away over _your_ breakfast, brave the chill of the hallways to fetch _your_ mail, give up my beauty sleep through the night to satiate _your_ lust--” he cut her off with a kiss.

“That is not how I remember _any_ of the past twelve hours,” he told her sternly as he scooped her up, ignoring her indignant shriek. 

“Mmmm, are we going back to bed?” she giggled as he swept them down the hallway to their room. “I thought you said you couldn’t.”

“We are, I can’t, and we’re not,” he announced dropping her down on the bed, and climbing in next to her. “We’re resting.”

She clucked in disapproval but rearranged the pillows so she was able to sit up against them, and made no move to dislodge them from the bed. She pulled him down until his head was once again pillowed on her breast and stroked his hair thoughtfully.

“Tell me what 'he was kind to you’ means.”

He groaned. “Christine, resting means being quiet.” 

She tugged a lock of hair in disapproval. “Erik, you never talk about anyone from your past. You don't have any family. We’ve been together for almost three years but people would guess we were strangers for all I know about the first 28 years of your life. You make it sound like there was no one that ever cared about you. So if there was, I'd like to hear more about it.”

He exhaled a great put-upon sigh against her, but began to speak quietly after a few moments. “Like I said, he was my grandfather's driver. He taught me...things. Useful things. He was the only one who paid any attention to me when I was home from school.”

Her fingers began moving through his hair again, and he sighed into her touch. “He never made me feel like there was anything wrong with me--”

“Because there _isn't_ anything wrong with you,” she interrupted.

“--but he never let me forget that people were going to treat me differently.”

“That doesn't sound very kind to me. That’s--”

He twisted to glare up at her. “Christine, do you want me to talk, or do you want to tell me how I'm supposed to feel?”

She huffed, but remained silent as he continued.

“He _prepared_ me for the way people were going to treat me. Which, I assure you, I was certainly _un_ prepared for when I was young.”

Her hand lowered from his hair to cup a twisted cheek. “I don't like to think of people being cruel to a child,” she whispered. “Especially over something completely out of their control.”

He turned her hand and placed a soft kiss to her palm, but said nothing. Christine had no idea how cruel the world could be, and he was not in the mood to enlighten her.

“So he was like...sort of an uncle? What happened to him?”

“He died when I was twenty. I--I suppose you could say he was like an uncle.” _If uncles teach you how to strangle attackers and buy you prostitutes_ , he thought to himself. “After he died, I...I tried to make sure his family was taken care of. His wife always sent me a Christmas card, and his daughter took over the tradition, I guess.”

“Well, I think it’s nice. I’m glad there was at least someone who wasn’t terrible to you when you were little, other than your aunt. I hope you send them a nice card and not one of those generic ones from a box.”

He had no idea what he was supposed to say to that, as he’d never sent a greeting card to anyone, for any occasion or holiday, in his life.

“Erik?” When he remained silent she tugged on his hair again. “Erik, please don’t tell me that these people have been sending you a Christmas card for eleven years and you’ve never once sent them one in return.”

He shrugged helplessly and she dropped her head back with a groan. “It’s like you were raised by wolves,” she grumbled. “You know what, it’s fine. Next year, I’ll make sure they’re added to my list. You’re ridiculous.” His chest constricted as it always did when she talked about a future with him in it. _Merry Christmas from the DeBecques_. Or _Happy Holiday from Mr. and Mrs. Daaé_. It didn’t matter to him, so as long as she was by his side.

“As long as I still get to be in charge of the Halloween candy,” he argued.

“Erik, you buy the Halloween candy to eat yourself! You don’t even want to open the door for trick-or-treating!”

“Little grifters don’t deserve any of my Kit Kats,” he mumbled, snuggling into her side and wrapping an arm around her waist. She began stroking his hair again as she laughed, and the smile remained on his face as he drifted to sleep.

.  
.

The gloom that passed for late afternoon sunlight in December filtered through the bedroom windows when he woke up several hours later. The blanket was pulled up to his chin, and he was alone in the bed. He stretched, arching his back until it popped and then sank back into his pillow, feeling extremely well-rested for a change. He hummed a little as he reflected on how Christine had cared for him--the window he was facing had the curtains partially drawn, she’d pulled off his t-shirt, knowing how much he hated things twisting around him as he slept, and had covered him with the fluffy down duvet. He was warm and complacent, and felt utterly loved. 

He should do it tonight. He wasn’t at all looking forward to the speakeasy, where he was sure to be stared at all night, or having to grit his teeth and be polite to fuckhead Remy. He would for Meg’s sake, of course, but he didn’t want to. But...maybe tonight would be the night. Christine would be all dolled up in the spangly flapper dress that she’d ordered and giggly off champagne. This could be an extra element of celebration, a way to give their tradition more meaning. She’d go to bed with him with the ring on her finger, and he’d never again be given the dubious title of ‘boyfriend’. It had been a good morning, they'd been able to spend rare, unrushed time together...barring the club burning down or a similar tragedy, he didn’t see why tonight couldn’t be the night.

He rolled onto his back with a smile and felt the crunch of paper beneath him at the same time he heard movement in the hallway. If Christine wanted to come back to bed with him to do something more strenuous than sleep, he wouldn’t be adverse to her advances now that he’d had a chance to rest. He swung his legs off the bed and crossed the room in two strides, throwing open the door.

“Babe? Do you want to take a shower with me before you start getting ready for tonight?” he called as he moved down the hall.

She turned at the sound of his voice. She had just shed her coat, and her cheeks were pink from the cold. The lovely dark eyes that met his widened in horror, the sound of her terrible gasp rattled and echoed in his ears as her dainty hands covered her mouth. His back met the wall as he swung his bare face away from Meg’s trembling form, as she staggered back from the monster in front of her. His hands scrabbled for purchase on the smooth wall as his knees buckled, and the floor rose up to meet him.


	6. Chapter 6

The sound of blood rushing in his ears overwhelmed him like a tidal wave. He had broken out in a cold, clammy sweat, and his bare back slid on the wall. His heart, thumping erratically, was lodged somewhere at the base of his throat, and he was unable to swallow or breathe around it.

This is how I'm going to die, he thought. In nothing but pajama pants, clawing at the wall, maskless, utterly without dignity. If only the old man could see me now. _'No grandson of mine will die flopping on the ground like a half-naked fish_!’ He began to laugh then; a terrible, wheezing, half-mad sound. Apparently he could breathe after all. He was instantly aware of a figure moving rapidly towards him, and he scrambled back like a crab until he felt the door frame of the bedroom. He was dimly aware of a voice that he could barely make out over the sound of his heartbeat.

“Erik, I'm so sorry, Erik please--”

He gripped the door frame and hauled himself unsteadily to his feet, slamming the door behind him and then instantly sank back to the ground, letting his head thud against the wood. 

“Erik, please. I'm sorry I startled you, _please_ come out.”

Startled him. He began to laugh again. Well, that was certainly a sugarcoating of events he wouldn't normally expect from Ms. Giry. Meg. A sound tore from his throat that may have been a sob. As much as he had wanted to pretend that she was Christine's friend, that he had just been killing time with her, being polite...this girl was his friend. His first friend, his only friend. The only person with whom he didn't have to worry about being good enough or what other people thought, with whom he could just be.

And that was spoiled now. Now that she'd seen the monster he truly was, she'd never be able to unsee. Just as he'd never be able to unhear her gasp of horror or forget the look on her face. They'd spoiled everything.

Suddenly, the door between them was not enough. He could hear her there, just on the other side, lacquered nails rasping down the wood, her indignant little huffs. He could smell her perfume, that sunny floral that he identified as unmistakably Meg. Had he given himself the space of more than a few seconds to go from the bed to the living room, he may have processed that scent before the sight of his unmasked face had ruined the only friendship he’d ever had. He launched himself up on wobbly feet with a minimum of stumbling, past the bed where had been so happy only minutes before, and closed himself into the bathroom. He sat with his back to the tub, letting his head drop on the cool porcelain and stared up at the ceiling. He began to count his breaths in an effort to slow his heart.

She began knocking on the bedroom door. “Erik, please come out. I'm sorry. I didn't even think you were home, and...and you startled me. I've never seen you without your mask and it  
...you startled me. I'm sorry. Please come out, it doesn't matter, just please come out and talk to me.”

Counting his breaths wasn’t helping. His throat was constricted, his heart still blocking his airway, and he thought it might burst through his trachea like some treacherous, alien thing. His mask. He wanted his mask. It was amazing how something so hated could be such a security blanket, but he knew he’d not be able to calm himself until he was covered. It didn't make anything better, never had, of course. A man in a mask was suspicious, a threat. A masked man was obviously intent on robbing, on raping, was certainly not just trying to quietly live his life. But it was vastly preferable to the horror show it hid, a horror he did not want to chance seeing in the mirror, and it was another barrier against the world. He felt itchy in his skin and he still struggled for breath. Horror, horror, horror. 

Right now it was a barrier he wanted, another barrier between himself and the girl who was still desperately imploring him to come out. His structured leather mask, the one he wore every day was on the dresser in the bedroom. He dared not go out to fetch it. There was no lock on the bedroom door, and he didn’t want to risk her bursting in on him again, as she had in the living room. In his apartment, where he shouldn’t have to be hiding in the bathroom. He tried to be angry, to make contact with the rage that so often simmered just beneath the surface of his consciousness...but his heart was too heavy, too full of sorrow. He felt very much like the nine year old boy he’d once been, slinking around the bathrooms long after lights out, trying to scrape together a few minutes of privacy when he could take the mask off and be unafraid.

The razor on his side of the vanity whispered to him. Now there was a thought he hadn't entertained in many long months, not with any seriousness. He thought of the gore he'd leave behind, of Christine being the one to find him, having to clean the mess that would be left once his body was removed...he pushed the whispers away, locking them back into a dark corner of his mind. His meds. He'd never taken any of his meds that day...and now that he thought about it, he couldn’t quite remember if he’d taken them the day before, or the day before that. He and Christine had stayed in bed for so long the previous morning, and then he’d become distracted... The sinuous, sibilant voice playing at the edges of his thoughts was not something he ought to listen to. He needed to cover himself and escape from this sucking maelstrom of panic before he couldn't form coherent thought at all.

He got up on his knees and opened the narrow closet. There was an old sleep mask in here somewhere, a soft cotton-backed thing that was gentle on his skin. It did nothing to disguise the shape of the nose he didn't have, and didn't cover him as thoroughly as the leather--which rested at his hairline and extended down to just above his top lip--but it was better than nothing. He rooted through the closet until he found it under a pile of towels at the back of a shelf. Safely covered, he turned to the cabinet over the sink and with shaky hands, struggled with the lorazepam bottle until the childproof cap yielded and he fished out a pill.

He noted that Meg's voice had lost a bit of its contriteness as he settled back down with the mask on his face and waited for the overwhelming sense of panic to leave him.

“Erik, you're being silly, just come out. I'm not leaving until you do, so you may as well just stop this and come out or let me in.”

He heard the door knob rattle as she realized the bedroom didn't have a lock.

“Erik, I don’t know if you’re crying or jerking off in there, but I’m coming in. On the count of ten, I’m opening the door, so dry your eyes and put that thing away, okay? 1...2...3…”

He listened to her count to ten and then slowly open the door. Her foot falls were soft on the carpet as she entered and stopped. 

“For fuck’s sake…” she mumbled when she realized he was in the bathroom. “Er-ik, come ou-ut,” she singsonged as she walked to the bathroom. “You’re being ridiculous. Will you please just talk to me?” She tapped on the bathroom door. “Are you still crying and jerking off in there? Will you please open the door?” He heard her sigh. She slid down to the floor and thumped her head against the door, just as he had earlier. They in a silent stalemate for a long while before she began to speak quietly.

“Look, you don't get to be mad at me for this, okay? When you and Christine started dating, I asked her about the mask and she said she hadn't seen yet, but she didn't care. And then _after_ she had seen, she still didn't care...and now that _I've_ seen, I can say that I don't care. But it's not like I was ready for it, this isn't something we had like, on the damned calendar. I rang the buzzer for 10 minutes, I thought you weren't home. So A--you startled the shit out of me because I thought no one was here, B--I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but _you don’t have a fucking nose_ , and it doesn’t make a difference if Christine said your face was ‘not great’, nothing was going to prepare me for that, okay? But now that I’ve seen, whatever, you’re still asshole Erik and nothing has changed, but you’ve got to let me have my moment of shock, and C--you’ve pretty much been my only friend for the past few months, and god help me, I really like hanging out with you, so I’m not leaving from this door until we’re okay, got it? So you can jerk off while you cry all you want, but you’re going to have to talk to me eventually.”

Silence reigned. A minute went by, then another, and another. His pulse had steadied, he realized. He took a slow breath and felt his lungs inflate steadily. Finally, with a sigh, he reached a long arm up and unlocked the door. He rested his chin on his knees and wrapped his arms around his legs as he waited. After a moment, her hesitant eyes peeped in. 

“For your information,” he began softly, “I don’t cry _while_ I jerk off. I cry _after_ I jerk off.” She laughed as she crawled in next to him on the floor.

“Well, I’m quite glad we got that cleared up, then.” She settled next to him against the tub. “Do you want your other mask? I saw it in the bedroom.”

“If it would make you more comfortable,” he said to the floor, his voice still low.

“No! That-that’s not what I meant. Whatever makes you comfortable. I’ve just never seen this one before. But it looks nice and soft, so leave this one on.” She slipped her arm through his. He tensed, but didn't shrug out of her grasp. “Is...is it uncomfortable? The other one? To wear all day?”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug with the arm she wasn't holding as he answered. “I’m used to it. As you can see, I don’t normally wear anything at home.”

“I’m _sorry_ , Erik. I didn’t mean to...do what I did. I was just surprised. It doesn’t--please, I didn’t....”

“I know, Meg.” He exhaled slowly. 

“Have you ever tried just putting some windex on it?”

He turned to give her a sour look and to his amazement, she started to giggle. His heart lifted at the sound.

“Or better yet, warn a girl! Why the hell were you taking a nap in the middle of the day, you’re a grown ass man! I literally buzzed for like two hours.”

He huffed indignantly. “Because your friend kept me up half the night and then made me get up with her at the crack of dawn because she likes to make me suffer. And before you said it was ten minutes, now it’s two hours. Does that mean you actually just whispered my name into the gutter and hoped I’d hear it before you waltzed on in?”

She dropped her head against his arm as she laughed. “She used to do the same thing to me! Like, you want to get up at five a.m. and drink your sanka, that’s just fine, Mildred. But let the rest of us sleep! Good luck marrying that, you'll probably never be allowed to sleep in again.”

He chuckled, and the the short silence that followed was oddly comfortable. “Did she really tell you it was ‘not great’?

“No,” she admitted quietly. “She said it was pretty terrible, but it didn’t matter because she loved you. Guess it’s a good thing you’ve got a big schlong, huh? ‘Cause you’re not exactly Mr. Personality.”

“OUT,” he demanded, shoving her away. “Get out of my bathroom. I can’t stand you.”

“Oh, you love me and you know it! I’m your wingwoman, you’d be lost without me.” She laughed again, pulling herself to her feet. “Are we good?” she asked standing above him, and her voice was tinged with worry. 

He exhaled and put his chin back on his knees. “Yeah, we’re good,” he murmured. He was stunned that he actually meant it, and the overwhelming relief he felt nearly made him dizzy. She exited the bathroom and before she closed the bedroom he heard her voice call out one more time.

“Put some clothes on, heathen!”

Nearly twenty minutes had gone by and he was still sitting on the bathroom floor, when he heard the front door open. A soft murmur of feminine voices and then Christine’s sharp “ _Wait, what_?!”  
He was unsurprised to hear her footsteps a few minutes later come quickly down the hall and into their bedroom. The bathroom door opened slowly. Wide blue eyes edged in concern swept over him, the little furrow present between her brows.

“Babe? Are you okay?” She crossed to where he sat and perched on the edge of the tub, drawing his head to her lap and wrapping her arms around him. He closed his eyes and let himself sink into the softness and the smell of her: lavender and lilac, comfort and love. His breath came out in a shudder and he buried his face--his terrible, horror of a face--into her, as she cooed words of comfort and smoothed her hand over his back and shoulders. Her other arm cradled the back of his neck, and he felt her lower her head to press a kiss to him. “Babe, talk to me.”

“I’m fine,” he mumbled against her. She laughed lightly, gently tugging his earlobe. 

“You don’t sound fine. If you were actually fine, you wouldn’t still be hiding in the bathroom, sitting on the floor,” She stroked his hair as he slowly moved his head to rest on her knee so he could look up at her. “Meg said you were really upset,” she murmured softly.

He pulled on the drawstring of her hoodie, suddenly unable to meet her eye. “Is that all she said?”

“No,” Christine admitted. “She said she saw you without the mask and didn’t react well. She feels terrible Erik. She thinks you’re still mad at her.”

He scoffed. “I was never mad at her. She reacted appropriately for having seen a monster, I can hardly blame her for that. I’m sure she didn't plan on encountering something so horrific wh--’

“Erik, stop,” she cut in. “I hate it when you say things like that. Stop disparaging me.” He picked his head up to argue and she held up a hand. “This is the face _I_ love, the face _I’ve_ chosen, because I love the man who’s attached to it. Don’t denigrate _my_ choice.”

His breath caught as he felt her hands move to shift the soft mask from his face, and her mouth followed a trail of tears down his sunken cheeks. Their lips met tenderly; again, then again in a slow drag and slide of skin. She cupped his face in her hands and tilted his head so she could move to kiss the furrow between his eyes. 

“Do you even know how expressive this face is?” she whispered. “When you’re annoyed by something, you wrinkle your nose and it scrunches up right here”. She kissed the blunt bridge above his nasal cavity. “And when you smile, really smile, your eyes crinkle right here.” Another gentle kiss. “And your skin is so soft here.” She pressed her lips to a spot just below his ear. He pulled her lips back to his and they kissed again, deep and slow. 

“We don’t have to go anywhere tonight, babe. We can just stay home if you want. I don’t want you to overdo it.”

He huffed. “Christine, I had a panic attack, not a stroke.”

“Are you sure? Meg said you were crying and jerking off in here.”

“Oh, I was _not_!” he cried indignantly.

Christine dropped her head to his neck and her shoulders shook with unrestrained laughter. “Babe, you were sort of crying,” she choked out between her laughter. “Do you want me to jerk you off and bring this full circle?”

“You know what? Yes. Yes, I do. This has been a very trying afternoon.”

Her laughter rose is volume, and he folded her into his arms, pulling her down to the floor with him. “Later, I promise. Right now, Meg needs to start doing my hair, which was the whole point in her coming over. I still don't understand how you surprised each other so horribly, it's not like I didn't leave you a note.”

“What?! What note? You didn’t leave me any--”

_Shit_

He distinctly remembered rolling over on a piece of paper, feeling it crunch beneath him. “Dammit, Christine! Why the hell would you leave it on the bed where I was sleeping?!”

Her eyes narrowed defensively as she pulled away from him. “Don't even pretend this is my fault! You are pathologically incapable of reading things I write for you! I write you a three page letter pouring out my soul, and you don't bother checking the mail for two weeks. I write you a detailed grocery list, and you come back with celery, strawberries, and brie. I can't make that into a meal, Erik!”

“You like strawberries! And the brie was on sale!”

She waved away his feeble protestations with a frustrated gesture. “I left you a note saying Meg was coming over around two o'clock, and that I had to run to the store. She called me at two fifteen because you weren't answering the door, and I told her you probably went to the studio and to let herself in!”

He struggled to his feet and stomped to the bed. The crumpled piece of paper was there, half obscured by the blankets, and he snatched it up just as Christine came into the room.

_Lipstick emergency! I'm running to the MAC store_  
Meg will be here around 2, pls put some clothes on!  
I'll bring you home a bubble tea xoxo! 

“See? I tried to warn you she was coming over! It’s not my fault you decided to sleep all day.”

He gaped at her. “Christine, do you even _remember_ what we were doing at three a.m.?!”

“I seem to remember _you_ enjoying it!”

He sank down to sit on the end of the bed and buried his face in his hands. “We’re not arguing about this,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’m sorry I didn’t see your note. I promise to search high and low for written correspondence from now on. Meg is sorry she practically swooned when she saw me, and will probably only ever use the key she was given for emergencies for actual emergencies--and lipstick emergencies don’t count. And you are sorry for demanding I get up with you at an ungodly hour after barely getting any sleep, and promise that the next time you want to get out of bed at too-damned-early o’clock, you will leave me be. So now we’re all contrite and this has turned into a terrible fucking day, and I am not arguing with you.”

“ _Fine_.” 

She turned on her heel and stomped from the room, letting the door slam behind her. He listened to the echo of her footfalls on the hallway before he flopped back on the bed and closed his eyes wearily. Funny how it seemed like only seconds ago he laying in this spot thinking it would be a perfect night to propose, as it had been such a great day so far. That had been just over two hours ago, but it may as well have been last week. At this rate, he hoped they’d still be speaking by that evening.

Four hours later, he was glaring at his reflection in the living room window, waiting for Christine, who had barely spoken two words to him since Meg had left. The dour looking figure in the window glared back, in its fitted black pants, black shirt, black shoes, and black mask. Black as my mood, black as my soul, he thought sardonically. He’d left his shit collar open, revealing a flash of white throat and had traded a jacket for a vest. His only accessory was the vintage Cartier tank watch on his wrist, the platinum face winking in the reflection of the window. It had belonged to the old man, and he always felt as though he could channel an extra layer of cold intimidation when he wore it. 

He’d spent the better part of the last two hours stalking circles around the block, hands jammed in his pockets and head down, glowering at anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path. Fortunately, other pedestrians were far and few between, and the ones that did happen to be out took one look at the dark figure and crossed the street. He could not shake that itchy feeling, couldn’t help the way his fingers twitched or the way his pulse seemed to thrum in his ears. Tension and aggression rolled off him in waves, vibrating around him, trapping him in a bubble of nervous energy. He wanted to break something, to drive too fast, to be reckless and dangerous and not care about the consequences. 

He heard Christine’s voice snapping at him down the hallway that she was coming, and he turned in irritation. 

“I didn’t even say anyth--” his throat went dry and his voice evaporated as she appeared before him. She was a vision. She paused in the doorway and they stared at each other for several beats. Her eyes, so hard only a moment ago, softened at the sight of his tight posture and hunched shoulders. Her dress had long layers of fringe that obscured her long legs until she began moving, and Erik felt hypnotized watching the fringe sway as she crossed the room. Gold sequins and ornate black beading crossed and swirled in a twenties-style art deco design. Meg had tamed her riot of blond curls into dramatic coil that rested over one shoulder, while her black headband boasted a gold beaded flower that dripped sparkling jet beads just over her temple. He was at a loss to explain how she could look so sinful, so desirable, and still so entirely angelic. The only thing he knew with certainty was that he didn't deserve her.

‘You look amazing,” he whispered. Ruby lips curled into a smile, and kohl-lined cerulean eyes sparkled up at him.

“You look pretty handsome yourself,” she murmured, running fingertips up his chest to his collar, which she tugged on until he lowered his head to hers. She pressed her lips to his lightly. “I hate when we fight, babe.”

She smoothed her palms over his shoulders and he felt himself relax infinitesimally.  
“Then it’s a good thing we’re not fighting. And we really need to leave before I change my mind about going and that lovely dress winds up crumpled on the floor.” 

Her tinkly bell-laugh made him shiver, and she raised herself on her toes to press a ruby-hued kiss to his throat. “There. Now everyone will know you’re taken. Let’s go.”


	7. Chapter 7

The club was low-lit and opulent. The first thing he noticed was that Christine and Meg wouldn’t be the only people in roaring twenties attire. He spied men in pinstripe suits and fedoras and women in varying levels of flapper costume. He decided that this was good news for him---the more outlandishly people were dressed, the less he stood out.  
Halloween had long been his favorite time of year for that reason, despite Christine's insistence that he loved it because it gave him an excuse to hoard his favorite candy like a dragon. A man in a mask was not a focus when there were scantily-costumed co-oeds abounding, and he thought tonight might not be terribly different as they passed two women, in flapper dresses far more revealing than Christine’s, drunkenly attempting to Charleston with each other.

 

The second thing he noticed was that the low leather banquettes were closely situated, and privacy could only be found in the darker corners of the club. His sweet Christine knew him well enough that she turned automatically towards the far wall where a row of tables were tucked under sparse, low lights. A hostess in a bobbed wig made a move to intercept her. “Miss, I’m so sorry, but these are reserved,” she began, but cut off quickly at the large bill Erik silently passed her. The girl looked back and forth between the pretty woman and the man in the mask and shrugged, sticking the cash into her bra and motioning them to the banquette in the center of the wall. 

“Erik, this place is great!” Christine squealed as he slid into the leather bench next to her. “Champagne! We need champagne...do you think we should order a bottle?”

He smiled tightly as he scanned the room for exits. He had still felt incredibly on edge since they’d left the apartment, and the cacophonous noise from the band in the too-small space made him wince. The club was done up in sleek, polished dark woods and deep red leather. The band was set up in front of a crowded dance floor, and the dark haired singer slinked around the stage in a black sequined dress. He took note of the red emergency exit sign down a narrow hallway past the bar.

“If you think you and Meg will drink a bottle, then absolutely. Whatever you want, angel.” 

“Why aren’t you having any champagne? We’re supposed to be celebrating.” She asked him, squeezing his thigh. He grit his teeth and ignored her question as he spotted Meg coming through the front door...alone.

“Why is she alone?” he demanded, and Christine craned her neck to spot her friend.

He’d noticed that Meg had immediately scanned the dark corners of the club when she had entered, like Christine, knowing him all too well. She spotted them easily and approached the table slowly, taking in the debauchery around her.

“I don’t know! She didn’t text...do you think he cancelled on her?”

The conversation quickly cut off as Meg reached the table. “This place is really cool,” she announced. “And I don’t know about you guys, but I need a drink.”

The champagne was ordered, as Meg dropped gracefully to the low leather bench. “He’s running late,” she announced flatly. “Said he’s ‘tied up with things’ but didn’t elaborate what things he meant.”

Erik’s eyes narrowed. “How did you get here? This is nowhere near campus.” She opened her mouth to answer but he plowed on, not needing to hear her reply. “You used Uber rather than just texting or calling one of us? In this weather, in that dress. Because you _want_ to wind up in a trunk somewhere, evidently.”

“Oh my god, stop it! It’s fine, Erik. Really! I didn’t want to make you drive in the opposite direction, okay? If it makes you feel any better, I’m gonna drink a significant amount of this champagne and not offer you any money, so thanks1”

The girls proceeded to spend the next hour gossiping and laughing, dragging him into the conversation when they could. He managed to resist pointing they could be doing the same thing around the table in their apartment, where it was quiet and comfortable. There was still a tightness in his back, and a tension in his shoulders that kept him coiled like a spring, but he suspected that wouldn't change until they were home.

The girls sipped champagne, periodically getting up to dance. “Erik, aren’t you going to dance with us?” Christine pouted up at him at one point. He bent to kiss the tip of her nose, and spun her around, giving her a gentle shove towards the edge of the dance floor where Meg was waiting. She turned to stick out her tongue before spinning in a twirl of fringe to join the revelry. Erik grit his teeth and made his way to the edge of the bar where groups of costumed men and women stood in clusters. The bartender closest to Erik cocked his head and studied the mask as he approached, but gave him a friendly enough smile.

“What can I get for you, sir? Old fashioneds are the house special tonight.”

Erik leaned over the counter with uncharacteristic geniality. “You know, I would love nothing more than an old fashioned or four since I’m here under duress, but unfortunately I took my crazy pills a little too late, so I’m stuck being sober tonight. Isn’t that fucking _perfect_? Soda and bitters on the rocks. Please.”

The bartender drew back sharply, the smile vanishing from his face. Erik sighed. _This is why no one likes you_. The glass and napkin were set on the bar wearily, and Erik could feel the bartender’s apprehensive eyes fixed on him as he slid a twenty over the bar. “No change,” he grumbled, watching the man’s eyebrows knit together at the over-tip as Erik took his drink.

“Hope your night gets better, man!” the bartender called to his back as he navigated his way around the bulk of the crowd to their table. 

Not bloody likely.

The girls collapsed around him only moments later, and he couldn’t help that he mentally referred to them as his girls now. Christine hooked her arms around his neck. “Babe, this place is so fun. We’ll have to come back on a slower night, and maybe you’ll dance with me.” She pressed her lips to the red outline of her mouth on his white throat. “Mmmmm, still taken,” she whispered. Erik dipped his mouth to hers and for a brief instant the sound around them seemed to fade. Long, cool fingers slid up her calf and skimmed the hem of her dress where it rested around her thighs. She sighed into his mouth and he swallowed it down greedily.

“You guys kinda make me sick. You know that, right?” He jumped slightly at the sound of Meg’s voice, suddenly standing over them. “I went to the bathroom and you didn’t even notice! You’ve been sucking on each other’s tongues for like, ten minutes.”

“Oh, we have _not_ ,” Erik rolled his eyes. “You’re so dramatic. Sit down, you’re making me nervous. Did you want a new drink?”

“No, thank you. And you calling anyone else dramatic is really rich! If they gave out a yearly award, you’d need to get a storage unit to keep them in.” She sighed then, and rubbed at her temple. “I’m actually going to call it a night, I think.” 

She ignored Christine’s little cry of protest. “I’ve been stood up, Chris...all I want to do is take a hot shower and hug my cat. You guys should stay though. You got the hermit to leave the hut, that’s cause for celebration on its own. And no, Erik, I don’t need you to take me home. You guys have done enough. I got here just fine, I can get home. You’re awesome friends, both of you.” Her eyes were over-bright, and he felt Christine’s hand tighten on his thigh. “And we had fun at least, right?”

“Yes, we did! This was so fun!” Christine exclaimed as Meg leaned in to hug her. She shocked Erik when she turned and pressed a quick kiss to his masked cheek before she quickly turned from their dark corner with a promise to call tomorrow, and elbowed her way through the crowd.

“I told you he was a fuckhead,” he grumbled to Christine as they watched Meg weave her way to the door. 

She sighed as she leaned against him. “She’s going to cry the whole way home, I can tell. I honestly don’t think I could handle being single again. How’d I get so lucky snagging you, babe?”   
He snorted derisively and she laughed as she swatted at him. “Erik, you’re an antisocial weirdo and you alphabetize the groceries, but you’re better than ninety five percent of the guys out there, masked or not. Seriously, you have no idea. Case in point!”

The band was starting up a rendition of “Bei Mir Bist du Schön” and Erik sighed heavily. “I do love this song,” he mumbled into her hair swaying slightly with the music. “Maybe we will need to come back to dance.” He tilted his face back down to hers and kissed her again, tugging her lower lip with his teeth as they parted. He wondered if the club would be willing to close to the public for an evening for the right price... “We weren't actually making out in public for ten minutes, were we?”

She leaned into him, laughing. “It's possible, I wasn't getting much oxygen for a minute there. Who knows what could have happened! We definitely didn't notice her get up.” Her eyes were lit with mischief as she lowered a hand from his neck to trail down his chest, pausing to circle over the thump of his heart.

“How horrifically pedestrian of us,” he murmured as their lips slotted together again. It could have been another ten minutes or ten hours for all Erik could tell; all he knew was that he loved this woman more than life, and if enduring the stares of strangers and braving the public was the price he had to pay to hold her in his arms and kiss her like this, he'd gladly pay it over and over, as often as she demanded.

Her nails were moving in small circles on his thigh, and she let them graze lightly over the bulge at the front of his pants, finding him half hard. “Maybe,” she stretched up to whisper in his ear, allowing her tongue to tease at the shell. “Maybe we ought to consider leaving ourselves.” She bit gently at his earlobe and he groaned.

“Oh, are you fucking kidding me?” 

He turned sharply to follow her gaze. He and Meg might swear like sailors, but Christine was normally a bit more straight laced. He knew whatever had inspired such profanity to fall from her sainted lips couldn’t be good. His eyebrows drew together under the mask when he spotted Meg’s slight form bobbing through the crowd coming back towards them...followed by fuckhead Remy. “I’m going to kill him,” Erik announced and Christine tightened her grip on the wrist she’d been holding. 

“Erik, you are not.   
...Not yet, at least.”

“Well, this is quite the party! Looks like I should have headed over here sooner!” Remy and Meg had arrived at the table. Erik studied Meg's face for a long moment, and the swirl of emotion he saw there--embarrassment, anger, relief, and nervousness made him dizzy. Dizzy and furious. 

“Guys, this is Remy,” Meg said somewhat flatly. “Remy, these are my friends, Erik and Christine, I'm pretty sure you know both of them already.”

“Mm, no... don't think I do,” he responded to the air over Christine's head as he scanned the room. “Why are we sitting in the dark? There are much better tables on the other side!”

Erik cocked his head as he felt Christine tighten next to him. She had played one of the sisters in the University’s production of Cosí the previous spring, and Remy had been one of the stage managers. Erik himself had been to half a dozen of the rehearsals, waiting for Christine on days they’d driven in together, in addition to being the most conspicuous instructor in the school of music--which shared a building with the theater department. It was hard to believe Remy didn’t at least vaguely recognize him or Christine. 

“We didn’t think you were showing up,” Christine said bluntly, with a tight, chilly smile on her face.

Remy took no notice. “Oh, I was a few doors down at the Rusty Bucket! I was meeting a business contact for a drink, and one thing turned into another...you know how it goes!”

“A business meeting. At a dive bar. Two days before Christmas?” Erik didn’t bother hiding the disbelief or disdain from his voice. Remy turned and gave Erik a long look as though noticing him for the first time. He lowered himself to the corner of the banquette with a supercilious smile.

“Well, theater folks are an unconventional group. I was scoring some points with the top guy from the Palais, and that seemed to be a bit more important than meeting...friends of a friend.”

Christine’s nails dug into his thigh, but he was still watching Meg. Her eyes winced and her lips twisted slightly. Color stole up her cheeks. She looked miserable, and Erik wanted to scoop her and Christine both into his arms and flee, putting both this noisy place and the obnoxious little asshole in front of him far behind them. 

“The Palais? Debienne still in charge there?”

Remy sat up a little straighter at that. “Um, yeah. You know Mr. D?”

Erik gave a grim smile. “Oh, yes...quite well. I’ll need to make a point of catching up with him after the holidays.” He spoke in an even tone, but his eyes remained hard. He knew full well Debienne was still the manager at the Palais theater, and also that the man wouldn’t be caught dead rubbing elbows with subordinates at a tatty dive bar the weekend of Christmas. No, Debienne would be safely tucked away in his giant house in the suburbs with his family, and Erik would certainly be paying him a call in the next few weeks...as he would be to most of the the theater managers and owners in the city. If there was one thing he could boast, it was that he had connections. Having a name that meant something in certain circles, the money to back it up, and his own long-ago successful performance career served him well, occasionally. If using those connections to railroad this little prick’s career made him a bad person...well, he had never considered himself otherwise. 

Remy’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward on his elbows.  
“So I knew this place did the whole ‘wear your best twenties gear’ schtick on Saturdays, but I didn’t realize it was a full costume party. What’s with the mask? What exactly are you hiding under there?”

Meg’s mouth dropped open and he heard Christine’s sucked in breath at his side. He realized that in almost three years together, this was the first time she was seeing someone directly confront Erik over the mask. The long looks and whispers she was finally, _finally_ starting to get used to, but this was something else entirely. It was ugly new ground for Christine, but this was a path he’d trod upon his entire life.

Erik let his mouth stretch into a terrible, predatory smile; shark-like, with far too many teeth. He knew it was the opposite of a friendly grin. He leaned over the table until his face was as close to the young man as the space permitted.

“Would you like to find out?”

He felt Christine’s hand on his chest then, pushing him until he felt the leather banquette meet his back. Meg had sunk unsteadily down to the bench and reached out for the first glass she came in contact with, throwing it back. Her face twisted at Erik’s seltzer and bitters.

Christine cleared her throat loudly. “So Meg said you just graduated, Remy?”

Seizing an opportunity to ignore the masked freak in the corner and talk about his favorite subject, Remy launched into a monologue about his career plans now that his degree was finished, giving Christine no room to interject. Erik took advantage of the attention being off him and thumbed open his phone.

You are never dating again without my written approval, you clearly can’t be trusted to make good decisions

The text notification buzzed in his hand just a few seconds later, to his amusement.

are you kidding?! i might never leave the house again without your approval after this

He snorted, and the phone buzzed again.

why are you drinking that disgusting water? are you actually an alcoholic? does your girlfriend know? u probably need to tell her

He looked up to her crooked grin. Before he could respond, Remy stood up. 

“Well, I’m going to grab a drink.” 

Erik reflected that the fuckhead’s cooler-than-thou air matched his skinny jeans and interesting facial hair quite well. If one was going to adhere to a stereotype, one needs to commit, after all. He wondered how satisfyingly the horn-rimmed glasses would crunch against Remy’s face...he supposed it depended on their material.

“It’s fine, we don’t want anything, thanks for asking!” Christine called out to his retreating back. The trio watched as Remy, while waiting for his drink, began to chat with the girl standing next to him at the bar. They saw her laugh and duck her head, they watched him put his hand on her elbow as she fished in her tiny purse, and watched as they exchanged phone numbers. 

“I should have left when I said was going to before,” Meg said in a tight voice, her cheeks red, turning away as her erstwhile date reapproached the table. 

“So are we going to dance or drink, or what?” he asked, sitting back down next to Meg, not noticing the way she turned from him.

It was Christine’s turn to aggressively lean over the table. “We actually have been dancing, and drinking, for the last two hours. You know, when you were supposed to be here?”

The eyes behind the glasses narrowed, and he downed his drink. “Look, I came out to have a good time tonight, not to be hassled.” He turned to Meg, who was still trying to edge away from him without actually climbing into Christine’s lap. “I’m going to the men’s room, and then you can decide what you want to do. Have a good time with me, or…” He trailed off casting a disparaging look at Erik, and then, to Erik’s extreme amusement, to Christine as well. “So decide. It’s not like you’re the only girl here tonight.”

Meg recoiled as though she’d been struck at the same time as Christine gasped in angry shock.

Erik didn’t have any siblings, hadn’t grown up with cousins or any other children. He didn't have the fond memories that other people did of opening Christmas presents with brothers and sisters, had never experienced campfires and beach vacations and Sunday outings with a warm, loving family. Still, he had to imagine that the immediate surge of white hot rage, the overwhelming urge to defend and protect must have been akin to what he may have felt for a younger sister, had one ever existed. 

The background noise of the club fell away and Erik’s vision narrowed to a tunnel that included nothing but Remy’s retreating back. He vaguely heard Christine’s concerned voice, but it was muffled, muddled as though he were hearing it from underwater. He wasn’t conscious of having risen until he felt her fingers close on his wrist. Instantly, the noise of the club came blaring back, everything around him suddenly oversaturated with color, the lights too bright. He was breathing hard. 

His eyes swept his surroundings, taking in the table of wide-eyed girls at the banquette next to theirs, the clusters of people at the bar, the chanteuse in her slinky black dress vamping on the edge of the stage. And then Meg’s pinched, unhappy face, clearly on the verge of tears; Christine’s furrowed brow and angry eyes, her arm wrapped protectively around the smaller girl's shoulder. His girls. And then he was off, shaking away Christine’s hand and ignoring the sharp concern in her voice as she called his name, moving with purposeful strides across the club to the men’s room.

He entered the bathroom and took quick inventory of its inhabitants.

“ _Out_.”

His voice was sharp and dark and cold; the old man’s voice, a voice he hadn’t used in a very long time. It was somewhat reassuring that he was still able to call it up at a moment’s notice, he thought detachedly. A middle aged man who had been washing his hands looked up at Erik in the mirror and quickly turned for the door, hands dripping, old enough to know he wanted no part of whatever might happen next. Two students primping in the mirror viewed the masked man with open mouths and then quickly followed suit, scrambling for the door. Remy turned from the urinal at that moment, and Erik was upon him in an instant.   
He stepped into the wall, and the hand that had hooked around the back of Remy’s neck carried the young man along with Erik’s momentum, the side of his face making impact with the tile before Erik’s body slammed into him from behind, pinning him in place. 

“Let me explain what’s going to happen next.”   
His dark voice was silky and calm, calmer than Erik had felt all day. This was where he was most comfortable; a predator, a hunter. He stepped back and relished the satisfying crack the younger man’s head made against the tile as Erik swung him around, throwing him effortlessly into the wall.

Long fingers spread across Remy’s neck, exerting just enough pressure to make breathing difficult and keep the man pinned where he stood. Remy gasped, wide eyed and terrified; his mouth flapping like a reeled carp, struggling for breath. 

“You’re going to go out there, and make your excuses. You’re going to take her home, if she allows it, and say goodnight like a gentleman. And if you ever contact her again after tonight, I will disembowel you with my bare hands.”   
Their faces were close enough that Erik could smell the whiskey on the other man’s breath, smell the rank fear rolling off of him.

“Trust me, Mr. Bennecot. They will never find you...and if they do, it will be in pieces.” He smiled then; a sinister, terrible thing. The hand across Remy’s neck pressed until the younger man’s face turned crimson, mouth gaping open. “And if you think of betraying the confidence of our little chat tonight, well…” Erik spread the hand hand that was not pinned to Remy’s throat and shrugged a little. “Who knows what might happen to you?” Remy’s bulging eyes followed the silver gleam of the knife that had seemingly appeared out of thin air, before it quickly vanished. “That’s not a threat Mr. Bennecot. It is, I assure you, a promise.”

Erik released him abruptly, and the younger man dropped to the floor like a stone, wheezing as though he’d been garrotted. Erik rolled his eyes at the theatrics, the glinting blade secreted back on his person. “Are we understood?” 

“Yes! Yes, anything you say,” Remy gasped, struggling to hold himself up on the tiled floor. 

“Excellent, I’m so glad you’ve decided to be agreeable. Now...pick yourself up, Mr. Bennecot. If you’re not walking out of this room in one minute, I’ll be forced to come back in here and put that pretty face of yours through the wall, and my girlfriend will be decidedly unhappy with me.” Erik spun and left the room without a backwards glance.

When he exited the bathroom, it was as though nothing had happened. The band was playing a raucous version of “Sing Sing Sing”, people were still crowding the dancefloor and the small bar. Erik wanted to scream at the band leader that this wasn’t an appropriate song to be playing on ‘20’s night, but he decided that at the moment it wasn’t important enough to address. His heartbeat was thunderous in his ears, his pulse raced, and a throbbing fire bloomed in his groin. He pocketed the cell phone he’d lifted from Remy as he made his way back to the table. The girls were right where he’d left them. Christine rose from her seat when she saw him, and staggered forward, her eyes wide with panic. 

“Erik, what did you do?” she murmured fearfully, clutching at his arm as he placed a hand on the small of her back and led her back to the table.

“Nothing, darling, I was in the men’s room. You know champagne runs right through me,” he answered in a breezy voice that was completely at odds with the heat and energy that thrummed through him. “I believe Mr. Bennecot was washing his hands.”

Sure enough, Remy was exiting the bathroom at that moment, Erik noted with satisfaction. Visibly shaken, the smug look gone from his face, looking a bit rumpled and worse for wear, but walking on his own two feet. The hand that rubbed gingerly at his neck abruptly dropped to his side when he saw Erik watching. 

“I, um, I'm not feeling very well,” he shakily addressed Meg once he'd reached the table. “I think I'd better go...can...can I bring you home?” Sweat beaded on the stammering man's forehead and around the edges of his beard. He swallowed visibly, adam’s apple bobbing, chancing nervous glances up at Erik. 

His performance lacked commitment, Erik thought, as Christine's fingers tightened around his arm. She wore a hard look and her blue eyes glittered with something cold that Erik had never before seen in their depths. Malice, he thought. Sharp, icy malice. Such a look on his angel’s face sent a thrill of excitement up his spine.

“No, you should go,” Meg was responding in shaky, angry voice. “Just go.” Remy made some noise about seeing her home, and she cut him off. “Erik will bring me home,” she firmly responded, glancing up to amber eyes and receiving a minute nod in confirmation.

“O-okay. Okay then. I... I'll call you tomorrow aftern--”

“Best that you don't. I'd rather you lose my number,” Meg cut in, a bit of her old spark making it's return. “You’re actually fucking terrible, do you know that? You have the nerve to show up here tonight and be rude to _my_ friends...delete my number from your phone and don't contact me again. You're not my only option, after all, and I can do much better. Good advice I should have taken a long time ago.”

Erik resumed his seat as Remy departed, his posture tight. He scanned the room, keeping Remy’s retreating back in his periphery, looking for any approaching bouncers or bar managers. He certainly didn’t trust that any of the men he’d ordered out of the bathroom didn’t immediately go running to report a potential altercation. None came, and as soon as Remy had disappeared through the club’s front door, Erik was pulling the girls to their feet. 

“Let’s go. _Quickly_ , please.” He led them down the narrow hallway past the bar, past the door marked ‘private’, and through the back exit. They stepped out into the alley behind the club in the swirling snow. “Car’s this way...head down, walk quickly. _Please_ don’t fall, I’m not in the mood to be carrying you both.” 

He moved swiftly up the alley, gripping different slim, small hands in each of his, pausing briefly to toss Remy’s phone into a dumpster. Once they reached the side of the building, the lights of the main thoroughfare greeted them and they turned up the sidewalk.

“Can we go rob a bank next?” Meg asked, gasping for breath against the frigid air. “This is exciting! I’ll never again make fun of you at lunch for acting like we’re on a stakeout!” Christine began to laugh then, a manic, slightly hysterical sound, and squeezed his arm tightly. 

He was not going to breathe easily until they were safely in the car, but he was glad that she and Meg weren’t in a state of panic at their bizarre flight from the club. Less than ten minutes later, they were safely on the road back to Meg’s apartment. He took a deep, steadying breath, now that the immediate danger of confrontation was behind them. He was feeling reckless enough that he would have welcomed the promise of violence, but the thought of something happening to Christine or Meg was enough to still his darker impulses.

“I don’t know what you did to him, but I’m disappointed that he didn’t piss himself. You're clearly not as scary as you think.”

Christine let out a strangled bark of laughter at Meg’s words. “I don’t know about Remy, but I thought I was going to pee my pants. Erik, I thought we were going to spend Christmas trying to bail you out of jail.” 

The car slid up to the curb outside Meg’s apartment and he quickly put the car in park and moved around to the passenger side. He helped each girl over the snowy embankment at the curb to the sidewalk. Meg turned before he could step away and pulled him into a half hug over the snow. “Thank you, Erik,” she whispered fiercely. 

When he stepped away, she turned and flung her arms around Christine. Erik listened to their weepy cries of “To hell with men, who needs them!” and “sisters from different misters!” as he watched Jamie and Cecile peering at them from the upstairs window, noses to the glass. _They’ll have the whole school thinking we’re having a threesome by the first day of classes_ , he thought darkly, ignoring the twitch his already hard cock gave at the thought. He was lifting Christine back over the embankment a few moments later, and then they were off.

They were quiet as they drove the short distance home. He was jittery with adrenaline, and his pulse still felt too fast. Christine finally spoke as she kicked off her heels, once they were standing in the living room. 

“I thought you were going to really hurt him.”

“So did I,” he admitted in an uncharacteristic moment of honesty.

She crossed the distance between them and fell into his waiting arms, pressing her cheek to his chest. “I was so afraid, Erik! I was worried for you, I was afraid you’d get hurt...but I was worried about you too, about what you’d do, and...and I wanted you to! That’s the worst part, Erik...I wanted you to hurt him! That makes me a bad person, I know, but…”

He cut her off, pulling her into searing kiss, enveloping her shaking frame in his arms. “Stop it. You’re not a bad person Christine, you couldn’t be if you tried.” His heart ached to see her so upset, again and always because of him, even as that darker part of him thrilled at her admission.

She pressed her face to his chest until her shaking subsided, and when she pulled away, her eyes were bright with tears. “I’m glad you didn't hurt him, but I'm more glad you stood up for Meg. Just...don't tell me what happened. I'm washing this makeup off, and going to bed. The sooner we go to sleep, the sooner we can forget this whole mess...you were right, babe. It was a terrible fucking day.”  
.  
.

He stood in the shower, letting the steaming water cascade down his back. Christine was curled up in bed, waiting for him, and he hoped she’d be asleep by the time he joined her. He’d been too tense, his blood too heated when she’d slipped beneath the sheets to be able to retire and hold her tenderly in his arms. He was painfully aroused, but there was no way he could taint her further that evening with his malevolence, especially not after her tears. Leaning heavily against his forearm on the cool tile wall, his left hand firmly pumped his throbbing length. He'd wanted Christine desperately; up on her knees while he took her roughly, possessively from behind, or kneeling in front of him, pleasuring him with her mouth as he tangled long fingers into her golden hair… he closed his eyes and tightened his grip, shucking the wicked thoughts from his body until he tensed and shuddered beneath the water. The tightness he'd been carrying all evening in his lower back released as he came with low groan.

If she thought she was a bad person, what did that make him? He stepped out of the shower on shaky legs, wrapping a towel around his slip hips. What would she think of him if she knew what he’d done earlier, how much he’d enjoyed it? The enormous satisfaction he got from terrifying that young man, coming so close to actually hurting him, and the indecent physical reaction the violence roused in him. He sank down the edge of the tub and buried his face in his hands. He felt weak, heavy limbed, and so very tired. She would be horrified, repulsed if she knew. Nothing would send her running into the arms of someone like the popinjay faster than actually knowing the kind of monster she slept beside each night. He would never truly be worthy of her, he knew. His breath hitched on a sob that he swallowed down, lest he wake her.

“ _What are you waiting for, Erik_?” Meg’s words buzzed in his head. He stood and staggered to the mirror, studying the ruined face that peered back at him. How could he saddle her with this? With his wickedness? As tears tracked down the twisted furroughs of warped skin, he admitted to himself that he was afraid, so afraid that he hadn’t asked because he was certain she’d say no.

His head felt impossibly heavy, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to stay on his feet. He entered the bedroom silently and tried to determine if she was sleeping. He slowly climbed into bed behind her and she turned to him, forcing her way into his arms. He tensed instantly, but she didn’t seem to notice as she pressed into him.

“Mmmmm, you smell nice,” she whispered, nuzzling his neck. “I waited for you.”

He stroked her hair with trembling fingers and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. “Go to sleep, angel.”

“I am, but I wanted to wait for you.” She hummed and settled herself against his chest. “My white knight.” She softly traced a whip-thin scar on his side as she mumbled against him. Her breaths became heavier, steadier. 

“I love you so much, Erik.”

He released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, his eyes pricked with tears. He felt her go boneless in his arms, listened as her breathing evened into sleep. _Of course she’ll say yes, you fool._ His lips ghosted over her hair. She shouldn't of course. She should run as fast and as far from him as she could go, but she wouldn't. And he was far too selfish to make her.

They’d be having dinner with Raoul Chagny in a week, and he’d be damned if he’d be introduced as Christine’s _boyfriend_ ever again. He gently rolled them so that he was on his back, Christine secure against his chest and snug in his arms. He stared up at the dark ceiling with a smile. _She’d say yes._ He was certain. It had been an exhausting, trying day. His little breakdown in the bathroom could be ignored. He settled back and tried to let sleep find him. Snippets of the day were replayed in his head in a maddening swirl. 

He felt a cool finger dragging up his foot, and heard the sharp crack of Remy’s head on the men's room wall. Rise and shine, sleepy head. Meg's horrified gasp bounced in his skull. What exactly are you hiding under there? He felt Christine's fingers carding through his hair. _Er-ik, come o-ut. What's with the mask?_ The cool porcelain of the tub chilled his skin as he leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling. _Erik, are you still crying and jerking off in there?_ His hands scrabbled for purchase as he slid down the wall. _I love you so much, Erik. What are you hiding under there?_ Remy's eyes bulged out of his reddening face. _What's with the mask? Are you still crying and jerking off in there?_

_I love you so much, Erik._

_Crying and jerking off in there?_

He opened his eyes. The order events that had transpired in the bathroom went through his head. Leaning on the wall on the shower. Shuddering under the hot spray as he climaxed. Choking down his sobs. The roughness of the towel he'd used to rub away the evidence of his tears before joining Christine in their bed. After he'd jerked off. And cried.

Fucking Meg and her fucking taunts. And what had he done? Brought it all full circle. Christine was right. 

It had been a terrible fucking day.


	8. Chapter 8

The next morning, he woke up in bed alone. There was an unnatural stillness in the apartment, and he knew Christine must be gone. This silent stillness, so unnerving now, used to be the only thing to greet him every morning. It suffocated him, made his heart ache to remember how empty his life had been before her. The dim gloom from the partially opened curtain told him it was still early morning, and he pulled the blanket up around his ears. 

He knew she was at her church job, that she’d be back by late morning...but the heavy weight of the silence pressed him into the mattress, pinning him like an insect under glass. This had been their routine for the better part of three years--she’d rise early for her soloist job, leaving him in bed with a kiss goodbye and a promise to be back soon--there was no reason to act as though her absence now was a cause for panic. That knowledge didn't help the way he gasped for air, didn't help to dispel the sense that this yawning maw of silence and solitude was a portent. He turned his face into his pillow, listening to the distant echoing drip of the kitchen faucet as he drifted back to an uneasy sleep. 

When he woke again she was there, perched next to him in the bed, chewing the last bite of a pastry she held on a small plate. Bright blue eyes met bleary amber as she peered down at him from where she sat pillowed up against the headboard. 

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” she whispered with a soft smile. She set aside the binder of holiday music she’d been going through and pushed a lock of messy dark hair out of his eyes. “You’re very cute with bed head.” 

“Nooooo!” He moaned into his pillow, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face into the soft mound of down. “What are you trying to do?! You’re going to trigger some kind of Groundhog Day protocol, Christine, and I am not reliving yesterday over and over again.”

She laughed as she climbed over him, straddling his legs. “Don’t be stupid, it’s only December. The only thing we’re going to invoke is Christmas magic, and that’s always good.” She began to gently rub his bare shoulders, gliding her palms down his back. “And besides, I didn’t wake you up today. I was _so_ quiet, like a little mouse. I’ll bet you didn’t even know I was gone.” 

It was true, she _had_ made an effort not to wake him. Most mornings he was instantly aware of when she was moving about the apartment...he’d never admit it aloud to her, but he couldn't understand how such a graceful woman had the tread of a charging rhino. Still, when she did wake him, he at least knew she was coming back.

She pressed her thumbs into the base of his neck, and he groaned into his pillow, before stroking firm circles down the jutting knobs of his spine. “Babe, people are going to think I don’t feed you.”

“I’m a grown man, Christine. It’s not 1953, I’m capable of feeding myself.”

“Yeah well, tell that to my aunt,” she grumbled, turning his head back to the pillow and returning her thumbs to his neck. She dug into the knots of muscle tissue, making him groan again. “I can’t comprehend how you _wake up_ this tense, Erik.”

The stress of the previous day had him strung up like an over-tuned violin, but the crick in his neck had actually begun two days prior, when he’d started the morning with her legs over his shoulders. He’d kept his head held at an uncomfortable angle between her thighs for far too long, and had felt the twinge later that afternoon. It had been worth it to hear her sing his name in ecstasy, and if the delayed reward was having her rub the knots of tension from his neck and shoulders, he’d be glad to start every day the same way. 

She worked the tightness from his body, leaning forearms and elbows into him, warming him with firm hands. He felt the stress of the past twenty four hours begin to melt away, the worry that had gripped his heart this morning seeming distant and foolish. She couldn’t possibly understand how much this sort of casual intimacy meant to him, how the warmth of her touch was a balm on the memory of too many years alone. Satisfied with her work, she leaned forward on him, soft breasts pressed to his back, and placed a kiss to his neck. 

He sighed as she pressed her cheek against him. “I promise not to tell Val I’m the better cook if you won’t.” He was unsurprised when that earned him a pillow to the back of the head, and he laughed at her indignant cry. 

“I stopped at the bakery on my way home from church. I brought you home a chocolate croissant, not that you deserve it, you awful man!” She climbed off of him and the bed, kissing his shoulder. “Get dressed and come have breakfast. Then you have to help me!”

He entered the living room twenty minutes later, pushing damp hair off his forehead and narrowing his eyes at the sight of boxes stacked around the room. “What is all this? Are these from--Christine did you go down to basement _alone_?”

She raised her chin defiantly. “Erik, I didn’t want to wake you up! We have to put up my decorations and the ornaments for the tree, and I have to start getting ready for the house party soon. I didn’t need your help, it’s not 1953 as you just pointed out so charmingly.”

She would be leaving that afternoon to sing at a Christmas open house, and then a private party later that night. He sighed at the reminder of one more day spent without her and dropped down on the sofa. “This is a lot of boxes, Christine. I don’t like you going down there alone, it’s too secluded. Anything could happen.” 

The apartment building’s storage space for each unit was deep in the basement. It was dry and climate controlled, but also dark and extremely isolated, and he didn’t like the idea of her venturing down there on her own. He pointed out that not only did they not know many of their neighbors or building staff, but that she was, as he frequently reminded her, extremely unobservant. 

“Erik, _you_ don’t know the neighbors, because you’re an unfriendly asshole. _I_ know everyone on our floor. And I don’t need to be observant when you’re paranoid enough for the both of us. Now shut up and eat your breakfast.” She brought him his croissant on a small plate with an iced coffee. “I wanted to let you sleep. You get to bring them all back down by yourself, if it makes you feel any better.” 

For the next hour, she moved from box to box, pulling out ornaments and decorations from her childhood, including a number of handmade items. The first Christmas they had celebrated together, this little ritual of hers had bewildered him. The last Christmas he’d remembered actively celebrating had been when he was eight years old. He’d received an expensive telescope and a giant book on astronomy, and promptly set up the small balcony off the upstairs hallway to be his personal observatory. 

After that year, Christmas was just another day on the calendar. Christine’s numerous boxes of decorations and bric-a-brac and general zeal for the holiday had been overwhelming in the sterile grey space of his apartment. The presents with his name on them had made him weep, decorating the tree on Christmas Eve had been confusing, and the expectation for him to be cheerful with holiday spirit a daunting one. The second year had been a bit easier, once he knew what to expect. Now it was clear he was expected to be 100% onboard the Polar Express with his beloved, and his instinct to humbug the holiday was to be left at the door.

“Look at this one, babe. I made this one with my mom when I was seven.” The ornate snowflake looked to be a typical holiday papercraft when she held it up, but when she knelt on the cushion next to him, he was able to see it was actually cut from a stiff lace. The glittered ends showed signs of wear, and he could see spots where the glue that held sequins applied by a tiny Christine had hardened with age, losing the baubles the once secured. Other areas had the sequins stitched to the lace, and they caught the light when Christine turned it. Stitched in the center of the snowflake was an old polaroid photo of a young Christine, looking like a tiny blonde angel in her ruffled green and white Christmas dress. The blonde woman with her was undoubtedly her mother. The nose was different, the face a bit slimmer, but the wide blue eyes and heart-shaped face were the same. The photo had been cut into a small oval, obscuring the background to focus on its main subjects, posing with arms around each other and matching wide smiles. 

“She died a few months after we made this,” she said softly, resting her head against his shoulder. “I barely remember her sometimes. I remember things, like making this ornament and shopping for vegetables at the green market, and setting the table together. But sometimes I close my eyes and I can’t remember what she looked like.” 

He turned to kiss her forehead, and her arms slipped around him. “I don’t know what she was like,” she went on after a moment. “I only knew her as a little kid, you know? I don’t know what kind of person she was. Daddy didn't--it was hard for him to talk about her, and the stories he did tell about were like fairy tales. I don’t know what she was really like. I don’t know if she’d approve of me pursuing singing, or if she’d like you. I wish I could talk to her sometimes, just to get her unbiased opinion on things.” She laughed lightly, but he was able to hear the tears that were already falling. “Don’t you remember your mom at all, Erik?”

“I never knew my mother, Christine,” he mumbled after a moment. “She left when I was just an infant.” Madeleine DeBecque was a complete mystery to him. She was never spoken of, and there were no photos of her, at least that he had ever been privy to. “My grandparents never...she wasn’t mentioned, ever.” 

_It’s not the boy’s fault…_

“She...had a drug problem, from what I was able to piece together, a-and she never stopped using while she was pregnant with me.” 

_... _keep that poison out of her veins while she carried him_ … _

He felt Christine’s sucked in breath at his shoulder, and the arms around him tightened slightly. “She took off when I was just a few months old. So no, I don’t remember anything about her.”

“Is that why--”

“I don’t know,” he interrupted. “I don’t know why. I don’t know if it was something genetic, or environmental, or...I don’t know. I’m sure her using drugs didn’t help the odds, but I don’t know if that’s why.”

They were quiet for a long moment before Christine spoke again. “I’m sure that was very hard for your grandparents,” she said quietly. “It doesn’t excuse them for being so cold with you, but I understand that it was probably very difficult to accept what their daughter did.”

He sighed heavily, not liking having these memories drudged up, but knowing that he owed it to her to keep talking. It was a bit absurd that she knew so little about his life before her after this long together. “Yes, I’m sure it was. My grandfather always talked about ‘legacy’ and ‘the family name,’ so I’m sure his only daughter being a pregnant unwed junkie was a very difficult pill to swallow, and then winding up with me...”

Her arms tightened again, and she shook her head against his shoulder. “It still doesn’t excuse them for the way they treated you, for being so cruel. You were just a little boy!”

“My grandmother was...well, I think I exchanged maybe a dozen words with her in total. So I won’t argue there. My grandfather though…” She looked up at his hesitation. He felt her fingers moving in soft circles where they gripped his sides, and he plowed on. “I think my grandfather was just a cold person, actually. I’m not sure it had anything to do with me specifically,” he said in a rush. Erik could only remember a handful of interactions he’d had with the old man that hadn’t entirely consisted of cold, clipped words, but he’d never witnessed him speak to anyone else any differently. If anything, he was more appraising with his grandson, slightly less dismissive as he was with everyone else. Alain DeBecque simply had ice water in his veins. The only time the old man had expressed any real emotion had been during a short conversation he’d had with Erik a few months before his death.

Erik had been summoned to his grandfather's study shortly after had arrived at the house, the summer he turned fifteen. He had planned on retiring immediately to his room, hoping to avoid seeing any of the cold, distant people whom he called family. Normally he'd be able to make it through days at a time without seeing anyone but some household staff and Jack, but he had barely unpacked his bags before the stone-faced butler was knocking at his door, alerting him that his grandfather wanted to see him in his study. As much as he wanted to, Erik knew such a request brokered no argument.

He had, he thought, good reason for wanting to avoid the old man. The past eighteen months of his life had been a living hell. The first surgery, he was told, would be life-altering. They would use bone grafts to repair the malformed structure of his face, build the nose he'd never had. It would take additional surgeries, they'd warned--skin grafts and adjustments, but it would be worth it in the end. 

It hadn't been. 

The grafts wouldn't take, his body soundly rejecting any alteration. The disappointment he could handle--his entire existence had been a disappointment, after all, he dealt with the familiar emotion every day. Still, he had hoped. Had allowed himself to fantasize about a normal life with a normal face. He wouldn't have to view every person he encountered as a potential threat, would have friends, maybe even a girlfriend. A chance to have a successful career, to move through life as easily as everyone else. Disappointment at that point was an old friend, and its bitter taste one he was used to. The pain though, he had not counted on. Pain so intense he felt as though he was being burned alive; pain that left him whimpering for a mother he had never known until the nurses had to strap him to the bed, lest he do himself an injury in his thrashing.

The doctors had apologized, saying there was simply nothing to be done...but can't was not a word in Alain DeBecque’s expansive vocabulary. New doctors were found, doctors who were willing to try again and again. Nothing had worked, and it was only the threat of an infection setting in to the mangled mess that was his grandson’s face that caused the old man to give up, after the fourth operation. Once he had healed enough to return to school, Erik had vowed to himself that he would not return to the house, would never go back...but after several months found himself longing for the peaceful solitude the family home gave him, respite from the non-stop antagonism he faced at school.

He’d stood in front of the heavy oak door to the study for several long minutes before he raised his hand to knock. A sharp voice bade him entrance, and he’d sucked in a steadying breath before opening the door. His grandfather sat facing the fireplace. A low fire had burned in this room steadily since the old man got sick, and Erik thought that the warmth of the room was not going to help his already clammy hands. He let the door shut behind him, and then amber eyes, so like his own, were on him. So like his, yet so very different.

The old man's eyes were flames that gave no warmth whatsoever, and his towering, foreboding presence had never failed to intimidate his grandson. Now he sat in his chair by the fire, looking shrunken; frail and hollowed out, with long, spindly fingers curled on the arm of his chair. Erik didn't like to reflect on how very much he would have resembled his grandfather had he not been born with his ruin of a face, or how much that may have influenced the old man's determined frenzy to attempt the multiple surgeries, shortly after he was diagnosed with the cancer that would eventually claim his life, to 'fix’ his heir. Now, with sunken cheeks and hollowed eyes, by some morbid twist of fate, Erik resembled him more than ever.

The old man's eyes took him in slowly, his gaze traveling from the floor, up his lean, tall frame, the sharply angled jaw, eventually meeting his grandson's matching eyes. For the first time Erik could remember, some unidentifiable emotion flickered there. Sadness, perhaps regret...it was gone before Erik could make a determination and the old man was turning away.

“Such a waste,” his voice rasped, and in this the regret was unmistakable, as he shifted his gaze to stare into the dying fire. He indicated to the other chair and swirled the amber liquid in the crystal rocks glass he clutched, his eyes never leaving the flames. Erik sank gingerly into the leather chair, eyeing the twin rocks glass, clearly set there for him. 

“What are your plans for after graduation?”

The question startled him. Rarely was he directly addressed, even rarer still to be asked about his future. Graduation was several years away yet. But then, he thought, the old man wouldn't be there in several years. Erik decided to answer honestly.

“School, of course. I’d like to test for early graduation at the end of this year, maybe. The university programs are very competitive, but I'd rather start sooner, if I'm able. And I-I'd like to travel. I want to see the world. To perform if...if places will have me.”

“And if they won't?” the old man cut in sharply. “Are you planning on letting that stop you?”

“No. And they won't say no. Once they hear me, they won't say no.”

The ghost of a smile played at the old man's thin lips. “Good.” He took a long swallow from his glass before continuing. “I fear you shall be disappointed. 'The world’ tends to be the same, no matter which corner one occupies.”

People were the same, he meant. Erik was able to read between the lines clearly enough. It wouldn’t matter if her were in Milan or Minsk, he would never be normal, and would never be treated as such. He reached out for the glass on the side table and took a small sip. The alcohol burned a trail down his throat.

“You have a good head for business, a sharp mind...are you quite certain that's not an avenue you wish to explore?”

“No,” he'd responded firmly. “It's not.”

The old man hadn't seemed surprised or even bothered, nodding as though he had expected the answer. They sat in silence then, the fading crackle of the fire the only sound; the fire dying as surely as the man he sat across from.

“It is an unfortunate hand fate has dealt you,” he’d said at length. “But it is your hand to play as you wish. You will have the means to pursue any course. I'll not have my only grandson drifting through life as a pathetic victim of circumstance. You shall find your way, do you understand?”

Erik nodded mutely. His throat felt suddenly thick, and he took another swallow from his glass to burn away the emotion forming there. The old man’s head swung around and fierce amber eyes met his. “Yes?”

“Y-yes. Yes, sir.”

The old man drained the last of his glass. “Good. Now be a good lad and stoke that fire on your way out.”

He gave a mumbled “Yes, sir,” and quickly swallowed the remainder of his glass, feeling it was important to do so. He heard the dismissal for what it was, and rose to tend to the flames. His grandfather did not speak again, and Erik let the door close softly behind him. It was the last full conversation they’d had. The old man had died only weeks after Erik returned to school in August, and he’d not been welcome to return to the house again.

“Daddy would have loved you, I know that much,” Christine said softly. “He would love how you take such good care of me, and how passionate you are about music. He’d definitely love that you’d snap anyone that tried to hurt me in half.”

“That’s very true. I will do that.”

She laughed, easiness returning to her posture as she released him with a kiss to a sunken cheek and stood up. “Stop distracting me, I have a lot of stuff to still find!”

“Wait, you’re taking out more? Christine, this is a lot of stuff already.”

She put her hands on her hips and gave him a challenging look, eyes narrowed to cerulean slits. “I don’t tell you to be less morbid and to not wear so much black at Halloween. This is my holiday, and if you want to be a grinch, you can do it on your own. But get out of my living room and let me decorate the way I want.”

He threw his hands up in defeat. “Fine! Spray fake snow onto every surface if it’ll make you feel more holly jolly. But for the record, I’m morbid and wear black every day, not just in October.”

She moved onto the next group of boxes as he stood. She pawed through the clusters of tissue wrapped ornaments for another half hour, chattering as he tinkered on the piano. There was a melody teasing at the corners of his consciousness and he was struggling to drag it forth. A melancholy piano line had been a hazy background noise in his dreams the last few weeks. He knew there was something there, knew he just needed to unspool the phrase to discover the rest...He played the same several notes in a sequence once, twice, a third time. He felt like the phrase was just beginning to crystalize when Christine’s voice called his name, breaking his concentration. 

“What?” he snapped irritably. 

“I asked what this box was. It’s not one of mine.”

The melody line had fled, winking out of existence as quickly as it had come to him. He sighed. It was no use. “What box, Christine? I seem to remember you bringing these up, did you grab a box of my old textbooks by mistake?”

She didn’t respond and he rolled his eyes with a huff. Rising from the piano, he saw her sitting on the floor, peering into the box. Her brows were drawn together and she was staring intently at a small booklet she held in her hands. Her jaw worked but no sound was coming out of her. She lowered it back to the box and picked up what looked to be an old photograph. By the time he made it around the piano to stand behind the sofa, her hands were shaking. Her face was frozen in an expression of shock, her eyes wide. He stopped his approach abruptly when he saw the box in her lap. The booklet she’d been holding was the piano primer from when he was very young. In the box beyond it, he could see other remnants from Aunt Paulina’s house. The photograph in her hand was old, yellowed around the edges, and Erik didn’t need to see it to know what was causing her stupefied reaction. 

“Erik...wh-who is this man?” 

Her eyes raised to meet his, and the sight of them filled with tears prevented him from going to her. His stomach tightened. Her gaze darted back and forth between him and the photograph and he felt a touch of coldness shiver up his spine. He knew what she was seeing, what she was thinking. He wasn’t sure what year the photograph was dated, if he was of an age with the unsmiling man he knew was there, but it had never mattered much. The similarities had been apparent from the time Erik was about eleven or so, and only grew sharper and more pronounced as he had aged. In the year before the old man had gotten sick, Erik often thought standing before him was like looking into the future...a warped, funhouse mirror version of the future perhaps, but his future self nonetheless. 

_Such a waste_.

“Quite striking, wasn’t he? It’s a bit of relief to know I’ll at least keep a full head of hair. Tell me Christine, does it make it better or worse knowing what you could have had?”

Her face swung up to his and the hurt on her lovely features was enough to keep anything more hateful from falling past his lips.

“You would have been very handsome, Erik.” Her tearful voice shook over her words as she placed the photograph carefully back into the box. “But I would never have fallen in love with you if your eyes had been this hard, even by half, no matter what your face looked like. And I'd like to think that the man who loves me would know me well enough to know that. Unless he truly thinks me that shallow.”

The hurt anger that had ignited on her initial reaction was doused in a cold wash of shame. He swung a long leg over the back of the sofa, clambering over it, and dropped gracelessly to the floor next to her. He pulled her into his arms, and sagged in relief when she allowed it.  
“I know baby, I’m sorry,” he mumbled into her hair, peppering contrite kisses to her forehead. Her arms came around him and he felt a hand tangle into the hair at the back of his head. She pulled him down until their lips met. Erik felt the tattoo of her pulse in the wrist at his cheek, and it was the sweetest music he thought he’d ever hear as they held each other in silence.

“You know, I had planned on taking very good care of you today,” she laughed tearfully after several more moments passed. “After yesterday, I wanted to take care of you the way you always take care of me. And all I’ve done since you got up is make you talk about things I know you’d rather not think about and cry. I’m terrible at this. I don’t know how you make it look so easy, babe.”

He chuckled and pulled her to sit across his lap as he leaned against the sofa. “If it makes you feel any better, I suspect I’m a difficult patient to care for.” She leaned against his chest and shook her head stubbornly. “Besides, you don’t need to do anything,” he whispered. She had laid a palm around the back of his neck, while the other splayed over his heart. Her nose nuzzled his throat everytime she raised her head, and he felt her lips just below his adam’s apple. “This is all I need, Christine.”

At length, Christine reached back for the box and pulled out the photo again. 

Alain and Paulina, 1962

Erik immediately recognized Paulina’s flowing handwriting. “She was lovely,” Christine murmured. “And he was very handsome. But I see what you mean, about him being a cold person. I recognize this glower, babe. This is the look you like to give Dr. Khan for no good reason.”  
She carefully replaced the photo and picked up the piano primer. She flipped through the book, cooing at the simplistic melodies and corresponding illustrations. She touched a fingertip to the handwritten notations in the margins, in the same sweeping script. 

“Your aunt taught you to play? How old were you?”

“Yes,” he answered softly, feeling his chest tug at the sight of the long-forgotten writing. “She played beautifully. I think I was about three or four when she first started sitting me at the piano next to her.”

“And how old were you when you went to live with her?”

“About two, I suppose? I don’t really know. I don’t remember anything before then.”

Christine flipped slowly back to the front of the book, landing on the inside front cover, where ‘Erik DeBecque’ was written in a shaky, childish hand under a ‘This Book Belongs To’ stamp. 

“This is the most precious thing I’ve ever seen in my life.” She turned to him with teary eyes. “Can I keep this, Erik?”

“Christine, you’re doing it again.” He sighed and swiped his thumbs across her cheekbones, wiping away fresh tears. 

‘I don’t want this packed back up and sent away. Please, Erik?”

He sat back against the sofa with a slight huff. “Of course you can keep it, but I don’t see why you want to.”

“Because there are no pictures of you when you were little, and this is closest thing I’ll get. And there was something nice in your childhood. There was someone who loved you, even if it was only for a little while, and I want to remember that. You should too.”

He knew it wasn’t going to be an argument he would win and shrugged, pulling her back against his chest. “Whatever you want, Christine.”

 

Christine's Christmas boxes were neatly stacked in the spare bedroom, as it seemed silly to bring them back to storage when they’d need to be pulled out again in just a week or so. The box from his aunt’s house was taped up and set on the table. He’d FedEx it to the estate, where it belonged, later that week. He suspected it must have gotten mixed in with his things when he’d stayed there for a several weeks after returning from Europe, after his breakdown. He’d need to make a point of taking inventory downstairs to ensure there weren’t any other boxes from his past, waiting to ambush him the next time he needed to go searching for his power tools.

He made Christine a steaming cup of lemon tea as she got dressed in her Dickensenian get-up, and then provided the accompaniment to her vocal warm-ups.

“Will you be home between parties?”

She sighed and wrapped her arms around his slim waist, leaning her forehead to his back. “I don’t know, babe. They’re both out in the ‘burbs, it might not be worth it to drive back. I probably won’t see you til tonight. Hopefully I won’t be too late...I feel like we’ve barely spent ten minutes together since break started.” He pulled out of her arms and turned to enclose her in his own. “You’ve spent more time hanging out with Meg,” she pouted. “But we have two weeks together starting tomorrow, and I might not let you out of bed for the majority of it.”  
She smiled up at him and stood on her toes, reaching up for a kiss. “I’d better get going, it’s supposed to snow more today.”

“Then be careful,” he said sternly, kissing her lightly. “Do you want to take my car?”

“What kind of stupid question is that? Of course I want to take your car. Why would I want to take my little icebox when I could roll up in a fully loaded Benz with heated seats?!”

.  
.

 

He jumped when her hand fell to his shoulder. 

“Erik! It’s me!”

He wheezed in shock, trying to laugh and failing. The apartment was dark, save for the light in the hall that Christine must have flipped on when she came in, and the small light above the kitchen sink. The windows showed black nighttime skies.

“Babe, are you okay? Why the hell are you sitting here playing in the dark? And what was that creepy ass song?” She stroked his hair and he pressed his face into her hand. He felt his entire body trembling slightly, whether from the cold or from the fear from his dream still roiling in his gut he wasn’t sure. “Erik? You’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

.  
.

The silence had pressed on him again after she’d left. He didn’t know why, couldn’t explain why being alone in the apartment felt so ominous, why it made him so uneasy. He’d gone out briefly, venturing out to finish his Christmas shopping. He pushed his way into Saks, ignoring the eyes of well-dressed sales women that followed him wearily, glad for once to be surrounded by noise. He was sure neither girl would approve of his extravagance with this gift, but the idea had come to him at Christine’s Messiah show that weekend, and he couldn’t let it go. In any case, the gift was being delivered to her mother’s house, over an hour away, and he’d not have to see Meg open it and be embarrassed. There had been several texts from her that afternoon, checking in after last night’s disaster.

just making sure you haven’t been arrested yet. should i bake a file into a cake just in case?

we need to put yesterday’s date on the calendar as our friendiversary. you can’t deny that it was some next level shit all day and night

And finally, just a reminder that i’m going to my mom’s for the holidays and won’t be back til after NYE. don’t rob any banks without me!

Christine’s little Honda was spectacularly cold as he drove home, and he made a mental note to look into getting her a new car after the holidays. Once home, the silent apartment again seemed oppressive. He felt as though he were trapped under a wave, unable to break the surface, and the stillness under the water choked him. You’re still on edge from yesterday, you just need to relax. This didn’t feel like a panic attack, though, and Christine had brought him the three multi-colored pills he was supposed to take every day on the plate with his croissant this morning. He had the bizarre urge to leave the apartment and take his laptop to the Starbucks up the street, putting distance between himself and the empty rooms. He twisted his hands and paced in indecision until he realized he was going to induce a panic attack with the way he was carrying on. He kicked his shoes off and flopped down on the sofa, firmly reminding himself that he was supposed to be on vacation, as he flipped on the television and tried to lose himself in something mindless.

He didn’t remember falling asleep. The dream had been terrifyingly real, and when he woke gasping, he wasn’t sure if he was still trapped in the nightmare. In the dream, he walked down the hallway in their apartment, following the sound of a melancholy piano, calling for Christine. The hallway was endless, with twists and turns it did not possess in reality, dimly lit and stretching on forever. The sound of the piano was not the only thing he was able to hear--the silence from the rooms he passed was like a deafening scream. It squeezed the hallway until Erik could feel it leaching out from dark doorways. He hurried down the dim path, trying to escape the opaque stillness, anxiously following the dreary piano. Christine never responded, no matter how desperately he called for her, and he was too terrified of the empty rooms to seek her there. Tears were streaming down his cheeks and he was hoarse from shouting by the time he reached the piano. A figure was seated at the concert grand, playing that same melody, the dirge-like refrain that had been haunting his dreams for weeks. He inched closer as the familiar-seeming figure at the piano swayed to the music, and he realized with horror that he knew the dark hair and taut shoulders of the man at the piano because they were his own. 

He’d woken with a start, gasping. His heart hammered in his chest, his skin prickled with goosebumps. He immediately rushed to the piano. He needed to get the music down on paper before it fled from him again. Maybe, just maybe, the haunting refrain would leave him be once he committed it to paper.

That had been hours ago, he realized. He turned on the piano bench and let her envelope him in her arms. He hadn't heard Christine enter the apartment, hadn't heard her calling to him. It was only the warmth of her hand gripping his shoulder in concern that pulled him from his trance, anchoring him back to reality, back to sound and smell and the safety of her arms. Back to her.


	9. Chapter 9

When they’d walked into the ballroom on New Year’s Eve, Christine had kept her arm firmly wrapped around his. Erik imagined this was certainly what it must have felt like to be marched to the gallows, and it was only the reassuring pressure of her hand on his arm that kept him from dragging her out the door and into the night. The ballroom had several doors that opened onto a snowy veranda, and behind the bar on the far wall, a narrow hallway disappeared into darkness. Staff entered and exited through a swinging door that must have led to the kitchen, where there was bound to be another exit. There were several giant fireplaces throughout the cavernous room, and Erik didn’t miss the way Christine lifted her hand off his arm to tilt it in the direction of the fire, admiring the way her ring sparkled in the winking light. She looked up at him and flushed with pleasure when she realized he’d been watching her. He couldn’t help but return her giddy smile, and leaned down to meet her upturned mouth lightly, his ears burning. She’d never looked more beautiful than she did in that moment. “Aphrodite will be jealous of you tonight, angel” he whispered, kissing her again.  
.  
.

“Christine, are you sure this stupid party isn’t black tie?” he’d called from the living room, nervously adjusting his cufflinks, shortly before they made the two hour drive to the old mansion-turned upscale hotel and banquet space that was hosting the New Year’s Eve gala they’d be attending with the Chagny brothers.

“How many times do I have to tell you Raoul said in the email he thought it was formal cocktail?” She came out of the bedroom, fastening her new earrings. 

“Christine, that doesn't _mean_ anything. Either it's formal or it's cocktail attire, but it can't be--,” he cut off abruptly. His mouth dropped open at the sight of her. “Christine, what is _that_?”

Her eyes narrowed. “My _dress_ , Erik.”

“ _Where is the rest of it_?”

She’d laughed then, crossing the room to smooth the lapels of his black jacket. “Why? Do you not like it?” Her smile was wicked.

The black grecian-style dress was long, skimming her ankles in a swirl of silk chiffon. The pleated goddess neckline was deeply plunged, and Erik didn’t know what kind of lingerie sorcery she’d employed but the large globes of her breasts sat high and suspended, and were almost completely on display. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen her show that much of her body before, and he saw her naked on a near daily basis. The side slit cut up to the middle of her creamy thigh, and the delicate strap of her skyscraper heels glinted silver. She was sex and sin, and still his salvation all balanced together on four inch heels

His mouth opened and closed and sound came out, but he was fairly certain it was gibberish. “Whnngww pp-p-People!” he finally managed to exclaim, gasping. He couldn’t pull his eyes away from her.

“What about people, Erik? What will they say? Who cares? They’re going to see a man and a woman madly in love, celebrating the new year. And if my dress takes attention away from your mask, are you really going to complain?’

More snow was expected throughout the weekend, and they’d booked a room in the mansion for the night. Christine had their overnight bag packed and sitting at the front door, but was unaware of the additional bags Erik had packed and stowed away in trunk of his car. She smoothed back his hair and stretched to peck at his lips. “We should leave now so we’re not late, babe.”

.  
.

They'd spent the five days since Christmas wrapped in a cocoon of bliss together. They'd gone out almost every day and night at Christine's insistence; she wanted to show off her ring to everyone they knew. The bistro where Roger had sent them celebratory cocktails, the bakery where Mrs. Willets had squealed over the counter at Christine, affronting the man in front of them in line, the Italian restaurant next door where she had received a kiss on both cheeks from several members of the family who ran the place and was sent home with a giant wedge of her favorite tiramisu. For his part, Erik went along on her little victory tour without complaint. She didn’t stray out of their normal haunts, and he was almost uncomfortable with how comfortable he felt. Occasionally people would remember he was also a part of the engagement news, but Christine was the clear star.

His phone had buzzed on the nightstand late in the night on Christmas Eve with a message from Meg, who had already received the news from Christine and did, in fact, remember him. He was drifting somewhere between sleeping and wakefulness, trying to determine if the press of his bladder was strong enough that it warranted leaving the warmth of their bed and Christine's arms. The buzz of the phone jolted him closer to wakefulness, so he carefully extracted himself without waking her, and hobbled to the bathroom. He picked up the phone on the journey from the bathroom to the kitchen and thumbed it open as he poured himself a glass of water.

_fucking finally! congratulations! :)_

_did you do something disgustingly romantic_?

He snorted as he typed a response. It had been the most unromantic night in the history of their three year relationship. They hadn’t even made love when they got home, both being too exhausted from emotions and tears and cold. They’d stood in a hot shower together, each leaning into the other, supporting each other up. Erik suspected if either of them had moved they both would have toppled over.

 _No. It was terrible_. 

His phone vibrated with a response only a moment later.

_honestly thats pretty much what i expected from you_

His mouth pulled into a grin. If there was anything he could say about their friendship, it was that they gave as good as they got with each other.

 _It would have been more romantic if I’d done it the day you locked me in the bathroom_.

Another buzz as he double checked the lock on the front door.

_you have a very warped memory of that day jerk_

_as long as you didn't throw up on her or pee yourself i’d consider it a win  
:)_

He eyed his glass of water and thought she was probably right. He poured it out, deciding he ought not to tempt fate, and tiptoed back to bed.

He found himself contemplating death only a few hours later. He was having an out of body experience, he thought, as he watched himself rapidly succumb to cardiac arrest. It was early morning on Christmas Day and he inched closer to death with every twist and thrust Christine made. If he was going to go, this was the very best possible way it could happen, he thought distantly...but what would the campus newspaper say? 

_Unpopular Music Professor Ridden to Death by Fianceé_

Every time he thought his climax was imminent, Christine would slow her movements, grinding herself in tortuous circles against him as she threw her head back and moaned wantonly, extending her pleasure and prolonging his agony. 

He’d been having a fantastically erotic dream that morning; he’d had fistfuls of blonde curls clenched in his hands as Christine sucked him, humming against his sensitive head, making his toes curl in ecstasy. He’d gasped when she’d raked her nails across his thigh, and the brief flash of pain made him realize it was not in fact a dream, as she released his head with an obscene sounding pop. It was _definitely_ not a dream when she crawled up his body and, gripping the headboard for leverage, settled herself over his mouth, her soft thighs pressed to the sides of his hideous face. The sounds she made as he moved lips and tongue against her _could_ have come from a dream, as sweet as they were to his muffled ears, as he licked and sucked until her thighs trembled around him. It certainly _felt_ like a dream when she’d gripped his swollen member, giving it several firm, twisting pumps before she sank down on its throbbing length. 

That felt like it had been approximately sixteen hours ago, and his dream was rapidly approaching nightmare territory, as Christine continued grinding against him. He needed to come desperately and it had long ago begun to _hurt_ and this was not how he wanted to die, at least not until after they were married.

 _The lawyers will make sure she doesn’t get a single penny, it won’t even matter if she has the ring, she’ll be put out on the street if there’s no marriage certificate, the will needs to be rewritten TODAY and_ \--ohhhhhh, finally, finally she was clenching around him and shaking as she fell forward onto his chest, and he was following her over the edge in an explosive release, his orgasm so powerful that his hips lifted from the bed as he pumped into her. His vision went fuzzy and he could barely hear her mumbling “I love you, I love you” over and over again against his neck and then the world went black as his heart stopped.

.  
.

The first thing he noticed when they approached the table was the hard set of Raoul Chagny’s jaw. He knew Christine had posted on social media that she had gotten engaged, had changed her ‘relationship status’ on Facebook, had taken the Instagram picture with him, in fact, much to his consternation. She'd been tucked up beside him on the sofa as she took a careful photo of their clasped hands, fingers interwoven, with her ring glinting in the center. He’d hated the way his bony, skeletal hand with its raised veins and tendons had looked entwined with her dainty, peaches and cream fingers, but she’d insisted. She'd shown him the dozens of comments her friends, including the older Chagny, had made on the photo.

 _Congrats, Chrissy! Can't wait to see you guys on NYE_!

From the popinjay there had been radio silence.

Christine would never admit it, would certainly never say anything about Raoul to _him_ , but he knew she was hurt by the lack of response from her oldest friend. He, of course, was secretly thrilled that his unwitting nemesis was showing his true colors with absolutely no effort on Erik's part to shine light on the popinjay’s motivation towards Christine.

The younger man's eyes bulged slightly as he took in Christine in her revealing dress. Her mountain of blonde curls was half up; the front pulled high and away from her face, the earrings that matched her ring sparkled and swung on the sides of her lovely, flushed face. The rest of her hair tumbled down her back, and Erik was unable to resist smoothing his long fingers across her collar bone to push back stray curls. She shivered every time he did so, and would twinkle up at him. Raoul’s gaze had torn away from her ample cleavage to glare at this little display of affection. His eyes eventually landed on the hand where her ring glittered in the firelight, and his glare hardened.

“Hey, guys! I’m so glad you were able to make it!” Phillippe Chagny rose from his seat as they’d arrived at the table, and quickly pulled Christine into a hug. “Congratulations on your happy news!” Releasing her, he turned to Erik with a broad smile on his handsome face. “And this must be Erik. Good to finally meet you!” His handshake was warm and firm, and his eyes seemed sincere. 

Erik didn’t fool himself into thinking that the evening would be easy or pleasant. He’d felt as though there were tiny shards of ice needling into his spine for the last 45 minutes of their drive; his chest felt tight, his fingers twitching. Christine had noticed and kept catching his hand in hers, squeezing his reassuringly. There were several empty seats at the table. Phillippe introduced his girlfriend Lianna to Erik and Christine after they’d taken their seats, and the pretty young woman had smiled broadly. “Congratulations to you both! Have you set a date yet?”

“Yeah Chrissy, when’s the happy event taking place?”

It was the first time Raoul had spoken since they’d arrived at the table. Erik had felt the younger man’s eyes boring into him while he shook hands with the older Chagny; he'd never introduced himself or even risen to greet Christine. _He's doing all the work for you_. The look Christine leveled on the popinjay was positively glacial. Erik would have sworn the temperature in the room dropped by at least fifteen degrees in the space of time before she spoke. 

“Darling, this is Raoul Chagny, one of my oldest friends. Raoul, my fiancé Erik DeBecque.” She spoke slowly, enunciating clearly, and held Raoul’s eye firmly. After another beat of silence she took Erik’s hand in her own, and moved it to rest in her lap. She kneaded each knuckle gently as she turned a sunny smile back to Lianna. “Oh, we haven’t even talked about a date yet! But soon, I don’t want a long engagement and neither of us want a big wedding. It’ll be sometime this year. You guys will definitely be invited!”

.  
.

“Erik, are you alive?” she’d whispered against his throat.

A pointed nail dragged lightly across his sternum, circling a nipple before it moved across the center of his chest. 

“Babe, did you die?” the voice whispered again. The nail moved over the flat plane of his stomach and dipped into his navel. His thighs tightened at the sensation. Not dead, apparently. He whimpered a little. 

“Oh good, you’re not dead.” He opened his eyes then. She was radiant, and smiling mischievously at him. “Erik, you came so hard that you passed out. I thought I’d killed you.” 

“I think you did. I was actually dead, Christine. Are you happy with yourself?”

She laid her head back down on his shoulder and began to giggle. “As a matter of fact I am. It’s not every day I can say I fucked my fiancé to death.” 

He choked a little at her uncharacteristic profanity, and her giggles morphed into wheezing hysterical laughter. Her shoulders shook and her face turned pink, and he held her until her hysteria subsided. He felt drowsy and complaisant, and strangely weightless. He wasn’t sure how long she’d let him doze after he’d blacked out, but the light coming through the curtains was considerably brighter, though he’d be happy to stay tucked into bed with her the rest of the day. 

“Erik,” she whispered, “we're engaged.” 

His heart, only just restarted, stuttered again. She lifted her head and their lips slotted together. For a long moment, nothing existed but her breath, her lips, her tongue, all mingling with his.

She was still partially straddled across him, and he could feel an uncomfortable wetness, cold and sticky, between their bodies. She dragged her fingers down his torso, again curling into his navel. Despite the wet, despite the fact that he’d just died, despite the fact that he should be spent until sometime after the new year, his cock twitched as she pressed into him. She smiled devilishly.

“We’re disgusting and we need to shower,” she murmured. “And these sheets need to come off.” She shifted her weight on to her knees and rolled her hips lightly against him. “Do you want to go again before we remake the bed?”

 

They'd received an additional group text from Meg early Christmas morning, more politely worded than the previous night’s exchange he’d had with her, wishing them a Merry Christmas and congratulations, and a reminder that she would be the cutest bridesmaid in existence. Christine had called Aunt Val sometime in the late morning to wish the family a happy holiday and share the news. Erik had heard her squealing and chattering excitedly at the beginning of the call, but ten minutes later had walked into the kitchen to find her sobbing, clutching the phone with both hands.

“I m-miss him s-so much! I kn-know he’d have loved Erik, and I w-wish he was here to see how ha-happy I am.”

He backed up slowly, not wanting to interrupt her private moment, but when she hung up the phone a few minutes and many sniffles later, he’d enveloped her in his arms and her tears had begun anew. 

.  
.

When he’d woken on Christmas Eve morning, his face had been pressed between Christine’s bare breasts, her arms around him. As pleasant as it was, he couldn’t fathom how he’d gotten there. He had a vague recollection that she’d led him, dazed and clammy after his nightmare, to their room the previous night, and bundled him into bed. He remembered her clucking in dismay that he hadn’t eaten anything all day, and that he’d let the apartment grow so cold as he sat in the dark, as snow had started coming down and night fell. She’d fallen asleep nestled under his arm, with their heavy down duvet pulled over them. There’d been a bit of dreary light that morning, spilling in through the partially closed curtain, and he nuzzled the full breast his cheek was pressed to. Feeling her fingers curl into his hair, pulling him slightly closer, he latched his mouth onto a rosy pink nipple. She laughed lightly, skating her nails over his scalp gently as he suckled.

“You’re like a giant baby, Erik. All I have to do is give you a breast when you’re upset and you calm right down.”

Her soft voice still carried vestiges of sleepiness, and he felt a pointed nail run from his hairline to the nape of his neck. He shivered at the sensation, and released her nipple on a soft, wet slide. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“You were having a nightmare last night, babe.” Fingers carded through his hair and skimmed down his back. “You were mumbling and thrashing around. But you settled down when I took my top off, like a typical man.”

She laughed again, but he pressed his face to her pensively. “I’m sorry I woke you up, angel.” He didn’t remember having the dream again, but he couldn’t imagine what else it could have been.

Christmas Eve passed in a flurry of activity as Christine enlisted his help in putting up her little artificial tree, stringing up lights and garland, carefully placing her ornaments. He didn’t see the point in putting up a Christmas tree on Christmas, but it was her family tradition, so he kept his critiques to himself. She’d requested his lasagna for dinner, and he was released to kitchen duty by mid-afternoon. She’d come out of the bedroom at seven in a midnight blue dress with white lace trim at the waist and bottom hem. He raised an eyebrow at her wardrobe choice, having expected a green and red confection with tinsel in her hair, but she seemed somber, and again he kept his thoughts to himself.

“I like blue and white on Christmas Eve,” she said softly, reading his cocked brow accurately. “It feels more appropriate for Silent Night.”

“You look beautiful,” he responded honestly. “Can I give you a present now? It’ll match your dress.”

“Yes, we each get to open one present tonight, that’s tradition. But we’re supposed to wait until just before we go to bed.”

He sighed in resignation and shrugged. “Whatever you want, Christine.” 

He had busied himself back in the kitchen when he felt her hand on his back. “We can make new traditions, Erik.” When he turned, her eyes were watery, and she pressed herself against him. “Will you wear your present tonight too?”

He nodded solemnly as she led him back to the sofa. She moved to the tree and pulled out a slim box from their small pile of presents. “Yours is the small green one, the one with the bow,” he’d instructed and she returned to sit opposite him with both boxes in her hands. 

“Me first!” she cried gleefully, putting her melancholy aside momentarily. He fidgeted nervously as she slipped a manicured finger under the seam of the wrapping paper, pulling it free from the velvet jewelry box. She lifted the lid slowly, and brought her hands up to her mouth as she gasped. “Erik, they’re so beautiful!”

She carefully lifted one of the diamond and sapphire earrings from the velvet. The teardrop-shaped blue stone was crowned with a swirl of smaller diamonds, and hung suspended from a large diamond stud that glittered against her hair as she fastened it to her earlobe. “I love them,” she whispered as he gently blotted away the tears that gathered in the corner of her eyes. 

“Stop it, you’re going to ruin your makeup.” He leaned in and kissed her gently as she cupped his sunken cheeks. “They’re only beautiful on you.”

She fastened the second earring and kissed him again. “You spoil me,” she murmured against his lips and he smiled. “Your turn.”

He slid the ribbon of the narrow box and pried open the lid once the wrapping paper was discarded. It was Christine's turn to look nervous, and she twisted her fingers anxiously. Two narrow curves of black leather rested in the Cartier box, and his eyes widened.

“I hope this is okay, babe? They're for your watch. I noticed the leather is worn and I thought...I took a picture of it to bring to the store, and the clerk said it's an older style. If the watch belonged to your...if there's sentimental value, you can bring these back, I don't want you to--,”

He pressed his mouth to hers, swallowing her surprised squeak. “It's perfect, Christine. Thank you.” The lump that had formed in his throat remained, but he was able to tamp back the emotion that her thoughtful gift invoked. She was perfect.

“I’ll be home to eat after the evening service,” she murmured into his shoulder. “Erik, will you please come hear me tonight? At the midnight mass?”

.  
.

“Erik, I’ve been wracking my brain since the summer to figure out if we knew each other,” Phillippe said, sipping from his wine glass. “DeBecque...plastics?”

“Plastics,” Erik confirmed.

“Did you go to Spencer or Billups?”

“Neither,” Erik started cautiously, not at all liking the direction the conversation was heading. Phillippe Chagny had done his homework, clearly. The trouble with east coast elites was that everyone knew everyone else. Erik had recognized the Chagny name the first time Christine had mentioned it, had been beyond relieved to know he hadn’t gone to school with the brothers. He'd thought the fact that he wasn't from any of the wealthy cities the old money families preferred would have been his safe keeping.

Before Phillippe could clarify where he’d gone to school, another young man had arrived at the table. Raoul had quickly stood, boisterously greeting the newcomer. The man turned with a wide grin, and visibly recoiled as he came face to face with Erik. Christine’s hand tightened around his fingers, as yet another couple arrived.

“How many damned people are sitting with us?” he hissed into her ear. 

“Well, there’s only two more chairs, so obviously not too many more, babe.” 

Her lips ghosted against his ear, and he quickly turned his head, catching them with his own and she smiled against him. He turned back to the table in time to catch Raouls’ lip curled in a disgusted sneer. The couple, friends of Phillippe and Lianna, settled in the chairs nearest them, and Raoul’s friend from his undergrad days, whom Erik immediately determined was a pompous tool, took a seat, leaving a deliberate empty space between himself and Erik. Two chairs left.

“So not Spencer or Billups?” Phillippe had picked back up the thread of conversation as soon as introductions had been made around the table. 

“I went to Billups,” interjected Liam, the tool. 

“No,” Erik repeated, taking a measured sip of wine. “Duchesne.”

Phillippe dropped his head back with a laugh. “Of course! I didn’t even think of Duchesne...too rich for our blood! But we still played you in a lot of things. Were you on the debate team?”

“Phil, who else is coming?” Christine piped up, clearly hoping to derail the current line of questions.

“Oh, well...Raoul’s...um, friend, couldn’t make it.” Raoul flushed slightly and glanced at the empty seat between him and his brother. “And the last seat was for Ms--oh! Here she is now!

Every head at the table turned as Meg entered the room. 

Erik felt himself sag in relief as Christine gave a little squeal and rose from her seat, releasing his hand. “I thought you said you weren’t going to be able to make it! Oh my goodness, you look gorgeous!”

“Yeah well, I was able to find something to wear and decided it would be worth the drive to see you guys,” she said lightly, embracing Christine in a tight hug. 

The dress he’d bought for her fit like a glove, a narrow column of somber purple fading into softest lavender. It was the evening sky, when all the dark fairies came out to work their mischief and magic, and Marguerite was their undisputed queen. The subtle beadwork up the side of the dress caught and shimmered in the firelight, the high neckline left her shoulders and graceful arms bare. 

Erik and Phillippe had each risen, and Erik pulled out the seat chair between himself and Liam the tool as the older Chagny came around the table to embrace Meg warmly. “Thanks so much for inviting me, Phil! It’s great seeing you guys again. Raoul, I’d hug you but there’s a giant table in the way.” Her smile was sweet, but Erik recognized the glint in her dark eyes. Introductions were once again made around the table, and Erik took note of the way Liam the tool’s eyes slid over Meg as she took her seat between him and Erik.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to make it,” he whispered, leaning his head down to her.

“I wasn’t, but I couldn’t leave you alone in the lion’s cave. What kind of wingwoman would I be? And someone who needs a stern talking to about what constitutes as an appropriate gift for a friend saw fit to send me a giant box of formal dresses, so it felt like the right time to put one to use.”

“Den.”

“What?”

“It’s den, the lion’s den.”

“Are you seriously picking this moment to fucking _correct_ me?!”

He choked back a bark of laughter and quickly covered it by taking a hasty swallow from his water glass. He looked up to see Raoul Chagny’s lip still curled into a sneer, now shifting his gaze back forth between him and the little dancer.

“Oh lord, we might need to separate these two, they’re nothing but trouble together.” Christine laughed, beaming at Erik and Meg. 

“Alright Christine, let’s see it. Stop holding out on us. And are those matching earrings?”  
Christine’s arm stretched in front of Erik so that Meg could gaze at the ring on her outstretched hand.

“Oh good, I’m glad someone else asked, I didn’t want to be rude!” Lianna laughed, leaning over the table to look at Christine's ring. 

“So you weren’t on the debate team?” Phillippe continued his line of questioning at Erik as though the last ten minutes hadn’t happened and the women weren’t all leaning in on the table, now that the wife from the couple who’s names Erik wasn’t paying any attention to joined in on gushing over the engagement ring. “What about lacrosse?”

“No and no,” Erik replied evenly. “Unless you were actively seeking out piano performances of Liszt or Chopin, I can’t imagine we crossed paths, Mr. Chagny. ”

“We beat Duchesne in lacrosse one year,” Raoul suddenly entered the conversation, sitting up a bit straighter. “Phil you were a sophomore, remember? It was a big upset with Greg Keene, remember we saw him and his father at the club that summer and his arm was still in the cast?”

Gregory Keene. Of course the fucking Chagnys were friends with Gregory fucking Keene, he thought sourly. Keene had been one of Erik’s chief tormentors at school, particularly when he was young. He’d had several altercations with the other boy during his academic career at the boarding school, the final one culminating in the injury the popinjay had just alluded to. He felt Christine’s fingers tighten over his thigh, and he realized how tensely he was holding himself. His hand hooked convulsively over the arm of his dining chair, and suddenly Meg was gripping two of his fingers. He forced himself to inhale and exhale slowly as he reached for his wineglass with the hand Meg wasn’t latched to.

The dots Phillippe Chagny had been struggling to connect all evening suddenly formed themselves into the picture he’d been seeking, and he cocked his head and gazed at Erik with slightly widened eyes. “Erik...DeBecque…” he murmured. He sat up straight, a huge grin breaking out across his face. “It was a huge upset. Everyone thought it was a fluke Federal was even playing Duchesne in the finals, that we’d be trounced. And then the star player broke his arm three days before the match and the whole team fell apart, and Federal won for the first time. We saw Keene and his father at the club and his old man let it slip he’d gotten in a fight and had his ass completely handed to him. He was livid with Greg. My father suggested Federal ought to send you a fruit basket for delivering us the championship.”

“ _He_ broke his arm? _He_ didn’t break anything,” Erik scoffed, draining his wineglass, suddenly feeling as though the shards of ice in his spine had melted and in their place a molten burst of energy poured through him. He wanted to get up, to shake out arms and legs and clear his head in the cold winter air before the fire had a chance to work through his veins and he broke the crystal centerpiece over Raoul Chagny’s sneering face. “ _I_ broke his arm in three places. Your friend Mr. Keene certainly knew how to start fights, but he sure as hell didn't know how to end them.”


	10. Chapter 10

The soft scent of frankincense greeted him when he’d arrived at the church on Christmas Eve. The pews were already crowded with parishioners, packed into tight rows for the traditional midnight service, and his heart climbed its way to his throat. Erik took the program that was stuffed into his hands as he shuffled with the crowd through the wide mahogany doors, feeling very much like a lamb being led to slaughter. The DeBecque households had been strictly secular. As an adult, Erik was relieved he’d not had religion shoved down his throat as a child, as he suspected he’d have a tetchy relationship with any higher being who’d allowed him to be born with such a face. Christine, however, had been raised by a family of devout catholics, had attended catholic primary school and high school. He’d remembered side-eyeing the painting of the Last Supper that had hung on the wall at her aunt’s house when they’d visited for Thanksgiving, and generally minded his p’s and q’s when religion was brought up.

Christine had come home after the earlier mass to eat dinner, and afterwards had pulled out an old Christmas album of her father’s, pushing him to the sofa as she loaded the record on to his high-end turntable. She sat next to him, tucking her feet to the side and settling her head against him, her hand fisting in his shirt. He held her tightly, and wondered about her uncharacteristic melancholy. He supposed it was natural to miss her parents during the holidays, but he’d been with her for two previous Christmases, and Christine had never seemed so distracted and sad. He’d insisted on driving her back to the church at 10:30, so she could warm up with the organist for the longer midnight program. “It’s silly to have both cars sitting here, I promise I’ll be back to hear you,” he assured her with a soft kiss as she got out of the car.

Fortunately, the people who came to midnight mass were a certain kind of devout, none of those casual Christmas and Easter church goers at this time of night. He’d hoped that the emotion that seized him as he entered the nave was easily explained away as him being another overcome member of the faithful, for as soon as he entered the echoing room with its vaulted coffered ceiling and heard the clearest, purest voice on the earth, cutting through the din of the parishioners, tears had instantly clouded his vision. He sucked in a shuddering breath and his exhalation was nearly a sob.

_Fall on your knees_

How could she love him? Him, a monster, a beast whose temperament and addled mind matched his outward appearance, when she was surely one of her god’s own angels. 

_Oh night, divine_

Erik wasn’t sure if there was an afterlife or any higher power, the only thing he was certain of was that if there was a heaven, Christine was sent from there.

She sang a dozen times more throughout the mass, and Erik thought he would choke on his tears before it was over. O Magnum Mysterium, There is a Rose, Gaudette, Ave Maria, and on and on. Her voice never faltered, never sang a single note off-pitch or out of tempo. By the time the parishioners were lining up to take communion, Erik felt as though he’d been rung out.

She’d met him in the vestibule after the mass. The rush of people pouring into the vomitorium were in no hurry to disperse, and he’d had trouble spotting her through the crowd at first. She’d seen him towering over the other parishioners and had wound her way through the crowd to his side. Looking up at his reddened, glossy eyes, she nodded as though she were agreeing with an unspoken thought, and shrugged on her coat. 

“C’mon, I have somewhere I want to go.”

She led him by the hand back into the nave, up the side aisle to the little nook where racks of white votive candles burned in offering in their red glass holders. Christine pulled three unlit candles off the rack and placed them into empty glass holders. Slowly lighting each one with shaking hands, she dropped to the kneeler, tugging him down with her.

“Christi--,”

“ _Shhhh_.”

He shushed, and tried not to fidget too much as he awkwardly shifted on bony knees. Christine had her eyes tightly screwed shut as her lips moved silently, tears running down her face. It seemed like an eternity before her eyes opened and she wiped at her cheeks. His legs were screaming in protest at the prolonged position, and he staggered to his feet in relief when she rose. She reached a tentative hand out and brushed her fingertips over the small Madonna statue that stood watch over the racks of burning candles. 

“There. One for Mama, and Daddy, and your Aunt Paulina,” she whispered. She took him by the hand and led him out a side door before he could say a word. He followed her through the snow, past the lyceum, past the rectory, and around a small caretaker’s cottage until they stood at the entrance of the small graveyard.

“Christine, wh-what are we doing?” he whispered, holding her arm before she slipped through the partially opened gate. 

Despite his macabre nature and the way she like to tease him about Halloween, Erik had always been profoundly uncomfortable in cemeteries. He supposed his nervousness could be attributed to a perfectly normal discomfort with confronting his own mortality, with his lack of religious affiliation and uncertainty of an afterlife. He suspected it could also stem from his childish belief that the undead would confuse him for being one of their ilk and drag him into a crypt where he belonged. As Christine led him by the hand through rows of snow-covered gravestones, he anticipated a ghoul in the shadow of every mausoleum, waiting to step out and accost them.

“ _Pardon the confusion, miss...this one’s actually one of ours_!”

They continued past row after row, and Erik tugged her arm again.  
“Christine, we shouldn't be here. It's after midnight on Christmas Eve, we're in a graveyard, I've seen this movie, we watched it together! We're going to leave and there's going to be an old woman wanting to talk to us, and she's going to turn into a _big fucking_ snake, and--,” he cut off abruptly when he collided with her laughing form.

“Erik, you are the most _ridiculous_ man, and I love you so, so much.”

Christine kept moving until they’d reached the end of the graveyard, where the wrought-iron fence lined the short stone wall separating the cemetery from a steep drop-off. A massive statue of an Angel guarded the back wall, and it was here that she stopped.

.  
.

Phillippe threw his head back and laughed. “That is outstanding! Keene was an ass, I’d wager he thoroughly deserved it. Still is an ass, actually.” He took a small sip of his wine, still chuckling. “Did you and Keene have to keep twenty feet from each other the next next school year?” he asked with a grin.

The summer after the Keene episode was the first year Erik was not welcome to return to the estate. He still spent the first several weeks of his summer intersession overseas, Paris this time. Upon his return, Jack had picked him up from the airport and deposited him at the Georgetown apartment, which would be home for the rest of the summer, with the promise to call if there was anything he needed. He’d felt the man’s eyes on him through the rearview mirror periodically, and he’d kept his gaze resolutely fixed out the window.

_They pay me to drive the car, kid, not have opinions_.

He had turned sixteen while in Paris, and spent his birthday wandering around the city alone. The morning and afternoon he'd kept busy in his lessons. He’d milled through a museum after a late lunch, and studiously avoided his reflection in the shop windows he passed as he pushed his way through streets full of tourists. He’d attended a small concert in the evening and then wandered for the rest of the night, the reality of how alone he was in the world suffocating him, until exhaustion drove him back to the apartment his family owned. 

He’d never felt quite as abandoned as he had that day and night, and the feeling had carried over for the duration of his time in Paris. Too much time isolated, too much time in his own head, which was never a good place to be. By the time he was settled in Georgetown, the feeling of loneliness and isolation had morphed into something uglier, something emptier. He existed as a ghost. He knew no one would miss him if he were gone, if he disappeared for good. His actions didn’t matter, because there was no one there to care. It stood to reason, he had thought then, that he could behave as he wished. 

He’d walked out of the small concert hall that evening in late July feeling invincible--he was a ghost, after all. He’d turned up the side of the building to keep to the back streets and alleys, as was his custom. If he hadn’t stopped to light a cigarette, he might not have heard the distressed cries of the lightly accented voice; the cellist who’d just played, who’s performance Erik had enjoyed so much. By the time he was released from the detention center in January the spring term was just about to begin, and the school made no move to prevent the hardened sixteen year old from taking the exams that allowed him to graduate early, as eager to see the backside of the youngest DeBecque as he was to see the doors of Duchesne close behind him for good. 

“That wasn’t necessary, I graduated early that year,” was all he said to Phillippe Chagny. 

“Still, it’s a shame you weren’t on the debate team, it would have been fun going against you...do you play chess?”

“Oh my goodness Phil, stop badgering the poor man! Erik, can you tell he's very excited to have someone around he feels is worthy of his superior intellect?”

Phillippe flushed at his girlfriend's chiding. “Sorry, I don't mean to--”

Erik waved away the apology with a stilted laugh of his own. “I do play chess, actually. We’ll have to make sure there’s a board kept at the lake. I’m fairly certain I’ll combust in the sun, so it’ll be good to have an indoor distraction.”

“You’ll be coming to lake?” 

This time when Christine’s nails dug into the scant meat of his inner thigh he flinched in pain. 

“Yes, Raoul. We’ll still be coming to the lake every summer, just as I always have,” she answered hotly, not giving Erik a chance to respond. Her smile was sweet again when she turned back to his brother. “Phil, did I tell you we have a place up there now? We’re practically neighbors! Just up the beach! We can’t wait to carve out some time to get away up there, right darling?”

He instantly began wondering if she knew of his plans, and didn't register that she’d been addressing him until Meg pinched his other leg.  
“Yes! Yes, of course we are, angel.”

He’d become ‘darling’ sometime over the past week, and the endearment still didn’t register in his ears as being his. He’d been ‘babe’ for so long--which he would never in a million years admit to Christine that he found grating, and that he was convinced she didn’t remember his name half the time--but it was unquestionably his, the way she was unquestionably his angel. He gingerly rubbed at his thigh. He’d be black and blue by morning sitting between these two, he thought.

“Seriously? That’s great! Wait, did _you_ buy the Poligny place? I didn’t think that even had a chance to hit the market!”

.  
.

Christine held her hands clasped in front of her, and rested her chin on them as tears had again begun to trickle down her cheeks. “I like to come here to talk to my mom,” she explained in a voice breaking with emotion. “Daddy had her ashes buried with him, and they’re so far away. This angel though...she always feels familiar, like she’s listening to me.” She pulled away from Erik and stepped up to the statue. He was uncomfortably reminded of the Commendatore scene in Don Giovanni, and was prepared to scoop Christine up and flee if the Angel started talking back. 

“Merry Christmas, Mama. I hope you and Daddy are watching over me, and that you heard me sing tonight.” Her voice tripped over tears, and she kept her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “This is Erik, Mama. He's the man I love. He’s a musician, like daddy. He's...he’s very strange.” She laughed through her tears. “He does odd things, and he's always anxious and awkward.”

He blinked in surprise. It was all true of course, but what did she say about him when he _wasn't_ standing right there?

“But he's the sweetest man I've ever met. He's gentle and considerate, and he takes such good care of me.” Her voice broke over a sob, and he felt his own throat constricting. “He's the only person who understands me,” she went on, crying openly now. “A-and I don't care what we are, he's the one I want to be with. And I hope you like him.”

She continued to talk through her tears, but he didn't hear anything else past “and I don't care what we are.” 

_She couldn't possibly think_ …

Suddenly all of his indecision and waiting and waffling seemed so stupid, his anxiety and anxiousness pits he'd trapped himself in and had unwittingly pulled her into as well. He fumbled for the ring.

_If you don't have it you are throwing yourself off this cliff_.

It was there, in the small pocket inside his coat, and he ripped his leather gloves off with his teeth. By the time she tearfully said goodnight to her mother and turned to face him, he had dropped to his knees before her. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes, only just beginning to dry, flooded with tears again.

“Christine...please,” his voice wavered as the snow fell softly around them. 

“I thought you'd changed your mind,” she sobbed. “You never mentioned it again after that one time, and I thought…”

“I-I didn't know how to ask you, Christine! The longer I waited, the harder it seemed, and I thought you'd say no, and--,”

At this she stamped her foot in the snow. “You are the _stupidest_ man!” she shouted. “Why Erik, _why_ would you think that?!”

“ _Please_ , Christine.” You are the only good thing in my life, and I want to spend the rest of it with you. He didn't know why the words he wanted to say, needed to tell her were so hard to get out.

Her arms came around his neck and his mask was pulled away and then she was pressing her face to his forehead. “Please say yes, Christine,” he whispered.

“You haven't asked me anything y--,”

“ _Please_ marry me, Christine. Say you'll be mine forever.”

And then she was sobbing yes into his hair, against his cheek, against his lips. It was all snot and saliva and tears, his knees were soaked and his fingers were numb, and it was nothing like what he’d wanted, what he'd envisioned, and he hadn't done anything right, but she had said yes. He slipped the ring onto her trembling finger and their lips met in a disgusting kiss. He thought the angel statue had turned its head after all, and decided maybe this was her parent's blessing and for once he should take it as a good omen.

.  
.

Christine was dancing. The dancing had started as soon as the dinner dishes were cleared, and a hunched octogenarian instantly appeared at Christine's elbow, asking to take her for a spin around the floor. She laughingly accepted, and was currently being led in a foxtrot. Erik suspected the prospect of being at face level with her copious cleavage was too much for the old timer to resist. 

Meg had been asked to dance by Liam the tool. The threat of being pulled into further conversation with the Chagnys made him grab Meg's wrist as she rose from her seat. Christine had already exchanged more terse words with the popinjay, when Lianna had asked if she would keep her name after they married, as it was something she herself was debating.   
“I don’t know what I’d do!” she’d exclaimed. “Lianna Sorelli just has such a nice ring to it, I’d hate to give it up.”

“I'm planning on keeping Daaé for the stage. It's how I've been known, and I have pitiful few contacts as it is, I don't want them to lose track of me just because I've changed my name. And that'll be a nice separation of work and home, I'll be Christine DeBecque everywhere but at the opera.”

Erik’s heart gave a squeeze. They’d not had this discussion, it was Christine’s decision and he didn’t care what she chose, as long as she was his, but hearing her say she’d be Christine DeBecque for the first time made his spine quiver and he was grateful they were seated.

“You're changing your name?” Raoul had demanded. “You're actually going to give up your father's name?”

“I'm fairly certain that’s my decision. I'm not _giving up_ my father's name, I'm _choosing_ to taking my husband's.” Christine had flushed an angry red, and Lianna looked embarrassed to have said anything.

“Let her know I'm stepping out for air.”

“Is that code for you need a cigarette?” 

He grinned. “Well, I will be getting air. I'm capable of multitasking, you know. Just please tell her I'm fine, don't let her panic that I left, okay?”

“K, I’ll let her know you went to go cry in the bathroom.”

The cold was bracing, and cleared his head. The evening wasn't going so horribly, he reminded himself. He was uncomfortable, and would obviously prefer to be at home, but Phillippe and Lianna were trying to be friendly enough. It was a relief having Meg there, and he was still riding on the sweet high of the previous five days. He finished his second cigarette and quickly popped a cough drop before he headed back in. He was walking down the empty hallway of the vestibule when he heard her voice.

“You are being completely ridiculous, and I am so _sick_ of this attitude you have!”

“Seriously, Chrissy? I have begged you to give us another chance so many times. We could be so good together, but you wouldn't even consider it. And _this_ guy is the reason?!”

Her outraged laughter echoed through the hall. “Do you even hear yourself, Raoul? I'm in the wrong because I'm not willing to be in a relationship that I don't want? And how can we give it another chance--we never had any chances in the first place!”

“Christine, we’ve always been good together! I can take care of you!”

“You're not even listening to me! I don't want to be taken care of Raoul, not the way you mean. I want my own life, my own career. Let's indulge your little fantasy, say we run off and get married tomorrow...then what? Are you going to leave your dad's company so that I can go work for an opera on the west coast? Overseas? Are we going to be a long distance couple and only see each other once a month? See, I can tell by the way your mouth is hanging open, those aren't options to you. So I'm supposed to be content to give up my own career and everything I've worked for to...what? Be a trophy wife?”

“But we could be happy togeth--”

“No, we could not. You can't give me what I need, Raoul. We were together when we were kids, that doesn't count for anything! You are my oldest friend, but that is all you are! I don’t love you, not that way!”

The popinjay's voice turned ugly at her vehement words, and Erik felt himself tense. _Walk away, you aren't meant to hear this, just walk away before you kill him_.

“Oh, but that freak gives you what you need, is that what you're saying? I can't believe you, Chrissy! Your father would be horrified at the choices you're making. You’re not acting like yourself, not at all! This dress, this attitude...That guy is a fucking psychopath! I remember what Greg Keene said about him! Do you even know what he's hiding under that ma--”

The reverberation of the slap echoed down the hallway. 

“How dare you. How dare you try to use mentioning my father to manipulate me. How dare you speak that way about the man I love, who gives me _everything_ I need. If you don’t think I’m acting like myself, did it occur to you that maybe you don’t even know the real me, Raoul? Because I’m not the same person I was when we were sixteen. I love you like family, Raoul...and I am going to forgive you for this, someday, because I need to. But it is not going to be anytime soon. Do not touch me, you don’t have that right anymore!”

He had been slowly edging away from the door where they argued, was almost at the entrance to the ballroom, but her words froze him again. He would kill him if he laid a single finger on her, would rip out the offending appendage without hesitation. He’d have none of the restraint he’d shown with fuckhead Remy, and would enjoy hurting Raoul Chagny. But then he heard the furious click of Christine’s heels, recognized her angry stomp moving away from the popinjay’s protestations, and he slipped back into the ballroom before he did something to get arrested.

He skirted the edge of the room to where the open bar was set up on a far wall. Two shots of whiskey later, he was feeling better about the whole situation. The boy had hung himself with his own rope, Erik thought, and he hadn’t needed to do a thing. No fight, no altercation, nothing that would have left Christine upset with him in any way. She didn’t need to know he’d overheard her argument, had heard the way he’d defended him--him!--to the Chagny boy. All things considered, he couldn’t have scripted it to go any better. 

He returned to the table with his first genuine smile of the night. Meg was laughing at something Liam the tool was saying, her eyes shining. The only other people at the table were Lianna and the husband from the unnamed couple, and the popinjay himself. Liam grimaced as he glanced up at Erik’s arrival, his hand resting lightly on Meg’s back. He rose as Erik took his seat and gave Meg a sharky grin. “Don’t go disappearing on me, I’ll be right back.”

Meg tilted her head back, laughing, letting her glossy dark hair swing in a sable curtain. As soon as Liam the tool was out of ear shot, she let her face fall into a sardonic smirk and swung around to Erik, resting the back of her head against his arm.

“Well? Private school, hedge fund manager, Delta Kappa Beta something or other. Lives outside of DC. What d’ya think?”

Erik chuckled. “Absolutely not,” he pronounced, sipping his water. “Are you crazy? Do I need to do everything for you?”

Meg laughed delightedly. “Whatever you say, you’re the boss!” She gracefully vaulted to her feet and wrapped an arm around Erik’s shoulder, knocking their heads together. “I love this dress, by the way. I’m gonna get us some drinks.” Lianna shook her head and laughed at their display, but the angry sneer was back on Raoul’s face.

“Who are you, her father?” he aggressively spat out over the table.

Lianna’s forehead crinkled at the angry sound of Raoul’s voice, and the mystery-named husband cocked an eyebrow. Erik merely laughed again. He had spotted Christine re-entering the ballroom, a familiar look of composed fury on her lovely face.

“Her father? Oh, certainly not.” He gave Raoul Chagny his most malevolent smile.

“I’m her wingman.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is preeetty smutty. If you're under age, shove off here, and we'll see you back for chapter 12!

Her fingers were a distracting pressure on his thighs. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and looked askance at her. “Are you writing the alphabet, Christine?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Mmmm, I’m writing you a love letter, babe.” 

Her love letter came in the form of several fingers tracing and caressing across his inner thighs and over the thick bulge at the front of his pants. His pulse pounded in his neck, a matching cadence in his groin, and he was having an increasingly difficult time focusing on the snowy road. 

This little game of hers had started shortly before midnight. When she’d come storming back to the table after her angry words with the Chagny boy, her eyes had been alight with fury.

“Erik, I want to leave. Are you ready to go home?” She was certain he’d jump at the chance to leave early, and was therefore surprised when he’d pulled her down to his lap, a possessive arm around her waist. Raoul Chagny’s eyes were tangibly boring into them, and he wondered if the furious young man would clamber over the table to separate Christine from his arms. He skated his lips up the side of her neck until he reached her ear.

“ _No_ ,” he whispered. 

She turned her head sharply. “Erik, I said I want to--”

“I heard what you said, love. And I’m saying no. You wanted to come celebrate New Year’s Eve with your friends, we’re here, and it would be terribly rude to Phillippe and Lianna for us to leave now. And besides, I want to kiss you at midnight. So get comfortable.”

She huffed as she turned to face him, her lower lip pushed out in an adorable pout. He gripped her chin and ran a cool fingertip over her mouth. “Such a delectable little lip,” he murmured. “Such a flirt she is, begging me to kiss her.” Her mouth turned up in a smile at that, and she leaned in for said kiss and he couldn’t resist sucking that irresistible lower lip into his mouth, too aware of their audience. “Christine,” he whispered against her cheek once he’d released her, knowing the popinjay was probably apoplectic at that point, “I’ll snap him in half if you want me to.”

She pulled back in surprise, blue eyes opened wide, before she began to laugh. It was his favorite sound in the world, and it trilled out of her unrestrained, to his delight. His dark chuckle joined hers, a perfect harmony of ambered honey and shimmering quicksilver, and every head at the table turned to watch their mirth. 

“I might take a raincheck on that for now, ‘kay babe?” she whispered.

Meg returned then, juggling three glasses as Christine moved back to her own chair. “Christine, I got us both this purple thing because it matched my dress,” she announced, as Erik relieved her of two of the glasses. “I got you your usual.” He doubtfully eyed the clear liquid in the glass, bubbled with a twist of lime. She gave him a conspiratorial wink as he sipped at the plain seltzer and found he couldn’t even be mad. Christine resignedly took a sip of her purple drink, accepting that they were staying.

Lianna giddily asked Christine more about wedding planning, and again heads turned in their direction. He felt a rush of sudden self consciousness. Without Christine in his arms the weight of the eyes at the table and those belonging to the people around the room, who were certainly whispering about the presence of a masked man in their midst, felt crushing. 

Just breathe. You can be normal for her for one night, it’s almost over. 

“Lianna, how did you two meet?” Erik asked politely, once there was a break in wedding chatter, attempting not to sound as awkward as he felt. Lianna, either oblivious to his rigidity or too polite to react to it, enthusiastically launched into the story of how she and the elder Chagny, who had returned to the table, met in law review, and Christine placed a comforting hand on his thigh.

It was after several more of the mystery purple cocktails that Christine had begun running her nail up the zipper on his dress pants under the table.  
“Mmmm, there you are,” she purred, tracing the outline of his manhood with her fingertip.

He was loathe to admit it, but the fact that she was being so scandalously brazen in front of the popinjay and a table of people only caused to excite him faster. Every time Meg would rise to dance with Liam the tool, leaving their side of the table empty, Christine’s hand would drift to squeeze the growing shape of him. His eyes would dart around the table whenever her hand moved to his lap, certain that someone would figure out what she was doing. 

His ears burned, and he knew his neck was probably scarlet. The heady rush of adrenaline from both her ministrations and the very real risk of getting caught thrilled him. He schooled his gaze into his vacant poker face as the teasing pressure of her fingers grew more insistent. Every time he looked in Raoul Chagny’s direction, the young man was glaring at him and Christine, and Erik would smile evilly. By the time champagne was served in anticipation of the upcoming midnight countdown, she was fully stroking him through the fine Italian wool of his suit, and he was erect and straining at his trouser front, his head heavy with desire.

The sudden pressure of Meg tugging on his sleeve startled him out of the pleasurable trance Christine was putting him, and he lowered his head to her.

“Erik, are you having a stroke?” Meg peered up at him, her brow furrowed in concerned suspicion.

He gaped at her uncomprehendingly, with lust-glazed eyes. He shook his head in an attempt to force some blood to flow back to his brain, and tried to focus on her words.

“Your eyes keep rolling back in your head like you’re being possessed, and I don’t want you to die at the table. At least have the courtesy to go die outside in the snow.” Her dark eyes narrowed. “Wait...are you possessed? Because that would actually explain a lot.”

Shit.  
He supposed his poker face had never really been tested in quite this way. Laughter, unexpected and unbidden burbled from his throat….and continued to pour out of him. 

Erik rarely laughed. He snorted derisively, he chuckled, he would occasionally let out a sarcastic guffaw. But genuine laughter was sporadic, partially because once he started laughing, he was not able to control the high, spastic sound that was so very different from his normal rich, honeyed tone. Meg’s mouth hung open in shock for a moment before she too began giggle uncontrollably. They clutched hands, wheezing for several long minutes, and if every person in the room hadn’t noticed him before, they certainly would now, he thought through his hysteria. Erik gupled from Christine’s waterglass in an effort to contain himself as Meg buried her face against his arm, shoulders still shaking. Every eye at the table was on them.

“See, I told you we should have separated them,” Christine said, as primly as she was able after half a dozen cocktails. It was Lianna’s turn to laugh, and Philippe and the unnamed couple chuckled in amusement.

“I didn’t realize how chummy you two are,” Raoul sneered.

“Didn’t you though? I thought that was made apparent to you this summer.” Christine answered for them in the most innocent voice possible, and he and Meg both lost control again.

When Christine’s hand began to stray from where it rested on the top of his thigh, as people began to count down from ten all around the ballroom, he stayed her hand. The pressure in his groin had blessedly lessened, thanks to the the embarrassing laughing fit.

Best to practice some moderation, lest you start moaning at the table next time. 

Once the ball had dropped and Auld Lang Syne played, Phillippe began enthusiastically making breakfast plans for everyone for the following morning. Erik cut in that they wouldn’t be staying the night after all, ignoring the way Christine clutched at his wrist in silent argument. When he turned to her, she had pushed her full lower lip out in a pout again.

“Babe, if we go upstairs, we can…” She trailed her finger down his palm suggestively, and cocked an eyebrow.

“No. Not here.” When she opened her mouth to argue again, he cut her off. 

“Christine.” 

He let a bit of cool silkiness edge into his voice, silencing her, gratified at the way she bit her lip and shifted in her seat, pressing her thighs together. He had no problem admitting Christine was in charge ninety percent of the time in their relationship, but she occasionally liked for him to take control, and was always so susceptible to his darker voice. 

He firmly pressed their key card into Meg’s hand. “It’s supposed to keep snowing, you shouldn’t drive back tonight,” he’d told her seriously. The pressure in his pants didn’t seem as urgent now that his cock had deflated a bit, and he was eager to put distance between Christine and Raoul Chagny. Leaving the party and heading to their destination tonight seemed the wisest action. Phillippe and Lianna expressed disappointment as Erik pulled out Christine’s chair.

“Don’t worry, the four of us will get together soon,” Christine assured the older Chagny, as he embraced her. “But if we stay, whoever’s unlucky enough to be in the next room won't get any sleep tonight.” Lianna clapped a hand over her mouth in laughter as Phillippe warmly shook Erik’s hand. When he chanced a glance at the popinjay, his face was purple. They departed, and he met Meg’s conspiratorial smile as Christine took his hand.

Now, white knuckling the steering wheel while Christine shamelessly stimulated him, prior deflation forgotten as his rock hard length throbbed, he thought maybe they should have stayed the night after all. The sensation of his zipper being carefully pulled down and slim fingers stroking their way inside made his head drop back and he jerked the wheel. 

“ _Christine_!”

“Erik, you sound very tense.” She squeezed him again and he groaned. “You’re very hard, isn’t it uncomfortable? Wouldn’t it feel better to just let me take care of you?”

He rolled his window down several inches and sucked in the icy air through his teeth. Of course it would feel better, what was she trying to do to him?  
“Christine, you’re going to get us killed. I can’t focus on driving with what you’re doing.”

She sat back with a huff. “Then pull over, Erik, and bend me over the hood of the car. You’re the only man I know who argues when his girlfriend is offering to suck him off. I want you now, I don’t want to wait another hour and a half until we’re home.”

He smiled grimly. She was, forever and always, supremely unobservant. They were traveling in the opposite direction of home. They’d passed the exit sign for Lake Guirec three times already and would be arriving in less than thirty minutes, provided they didn’t wind up in an embankment because she couldn’t keep her hands to herself. He gave her instructions to dig through the center console to fish out the remote for the garage door, a task which had the double benefit of ensuring that they had it ready for their arrival, and keeping her hands off his erection. 

It wasn’t until they were pulling off the exit that she realized they were not going home. The car slid through the dark, tiny vacation town, and her eyes were wide and shining. She pushed the button on the remote when they pulled up to the giant lake house, and leaned over to kiss him once the car was safely ensconced in the dark garage.

He immediately lit the fireplaces in the wide living room and the master bedroom, to start taking the chill out of the air in the empty house. Christine went to take off her formal gown as he brought in the groceries and their weekend bags that he had stashed in the trunk. Groceries were put away, doors were locked, the alarm system reset. Christine had never come out. He’d planned this little impromptu trip to the neglected lake house after Christine had complained that they had barely spent time together over their winter break, and packed them enough provisions to stay for at least three or four days. The lakeside resort town was all but deserted this time of year, and the weather forecast held nothing but snow. All they had to occupy themselves for several days was the grand piano in the living room and the master suite’s very large bed. 

Erik stood at the glass wall overlooking the lake, and watched the snow fall for several minutes before he turned down the hall to the master bedroom. The room was dark, save for the flickering firelight. Christine was stretched out across the bed on top of the covers, laying on her side with her head propped up on a dainty hand. She was completely nude; her long legs, the generous curve of her round hips and full breasts, and her impossibly lovely face were cast in the fire’s glow. Her hair was loose, and the mountain of golden curls spilled around her. She was a goddess, and he nearly fell to his knees in supplication before her.

“Erik, you took forever. I almost started without you.” 

He was hypnotized, unable to pull his eyes away from the pointed nail of her index finger, the same nail that so often dragged across his scalp and down his chest, that was currently circling her pebbled nipple. There was not a single drop of blood left in his head, every bit of it being redirected downward. 

“Take that mask off this instant,” she said with annoyance. Her mouth curved into a wicked smile when the mask was placed on the dresser. “Perfect. Now, take off your clothes.”

His hands fumbled at the buttons of the dress shirt. He’d already shed his suit jacket, and had loosened his tie when he brought their bags in, now he slipped it easily over his head and threw it down to where she reclined. “Mmmm, this might come in handy,” she trilled moving the tie off to the side of the bed for safe keeping. 

He paid close attention to her movements and reactions as his hands worked at his shirt buttons. Her fingertips still teased at her nipple, circling and skating over the puckered skin, and once he reached the final button and slowly pulled the shirt away from his body, she pinched the tip, making herself gasp at the sensation. Her soft thighs squeezed together in rhythmic pulses, and she began pinching her nipple in time when he started to undo his belt. Shoes and socks were shed, dress pants pulled down his long legs, until he stood before her in nothing but his black boxer briefs, the front tented obscenely. 

His movements stilled when her hand left her breast to trail down the softness of her stomach and disappear between her thighs. Her eyes closed briefly as her fingers made contact with the centerpoint of her pleasure and she the little mewl she made nearly drove him mad.

“Take those off slowly for me, Erik.” 

He never took his eyes off her hand, the fingers now moving in the same pulsing rhythm she’d used on her nipple. He slowly peeled the boxers down his body, releasing his erection with a bounce. Christine’s eyes were dark with desire and she laughed delightedly. Kicking away that last scrap of clothing, he advanced on the bed. She raised herself to sit up, bracing herself with hands against the mattress to lean forward. The hand that came away from her center glistened in the firelight, and he growled. His straining member bobbed in front of her, and he closed his eyes in anticipation of her mouth taking him in; for the sweet, heady sensation of her lips wrapping around his head and sucking...when nothing happened, he blinked his eyes open to see her sitting back smirking thoughtfully.

“You made me wait a very long time, babe.”

With a glinting smile, she reclined onto her back, propping herself up on her elbows, and slowly spread her legs wide for him. It felt so deliciously dirty, practically obscene, and he was dizzy with how much it turned him on. He bent and his tongue met her slick, pink center in a long, slow lick and Christine let out a shuddering breath. He lapped at her, dropping to bony knees with a thud. He’d begun pulling her closer to the end of the bed when she stopped him.

“No, I want to watch.”

He groaned again as he lowered his mouth back to her. Her breath hitched as he lashed his tongue against her little pearl, and when he pulled it between his lips and sucked, she forgot she wanted to watch him, as she dropped back with a high moan. One long, slender finger slipped into her molten center, then a second, curved to stroke her in the spot he knew brought her the most pleasure.

“Oh god, Erik, right there! Right there, don't stop,” she moaned, and he followed her direction, giving her what she wanted. 

_You always give her what she wants_. His neglected cock twitched, and he desperately needed to move his neck. _You don't always have to give her what she wants_.

She was keening as her orgasm built against his mouth, nails raking through his hair as he moved his fingers in time to the rhythm he’d established sucking on her swollen little nub, and as he felt her inner walls begin to tremble, he removed his fingers and stilled his tongue.

“Don’t stop, Erik, please don’t stop,” she wheezed, trying to raise her hips but finding no leverage to do so. He blew lightly on her, pulling his head away, and she cried out in frustration. She struggled to raise her head and he almost laughed at the accusing look she gave him. He sucked her essence from his fingers greedily as he stood, and dropped on his back across the bed. 

“I seem to remember being teased all evening,” he said conversationally, stroking himself lazily with his slickened hand, “and I distinctly remember someone wanting to suck me off.” She gasped in outrage and clambered to her knees to loom over him.

“Seriously?! You are so mean.”

He grinned at her, reaching up to palm her breast, pinching the nipple. “Don't be so selfish, Christine.”

Her eyes fluttered shut shut for a moment before they snapped open, fixing him with an appraising look. “I suppose if we’re going to be married we need to learn to compromise, Erik.”

She wasted no time swinging a leg over him to straddle his face, arching her back as as she stretched down his long body to grip his thickened length. He gripped her thighs, pulling her wet heat down to his waiting tongue, and she moaned, high and breathy against him.

“Chrish-tin,” he groaned against her wetness, as she swirled her tongue around him, slim fingers kneading and rolling his sac as she sucked at his pearling tip. Her mouth sought that sensitive little wedge at the base of his head, and when her lips puckered to suckle on it, he nearly bucked her off of him as he arched in ecstacy. He momentarily lost focus, letting his head drop back as he moaned her name again. She bobbed her mouth up and down his length, her lips tightened. His eyes rolled back before he remembered himself and slid his tongue against her once more.  
Her hips canted against his mouth as he settled back into a familiar rhythm.

“Right there Erik, please don’t stop, I'll kill you if you stop again,” she gasped as he lapped and sucked on her swollen clit, and when her thighs began to tremble this time, he kept up the onslaught of his tongue against her until she was practically wailing with her climax. She temporarily released his cock to grip his thighs for support as she trembled and pulsed against him. His face was drenched. 

She breathed hard for several long moments as she came down from her high, and he delivered slow, languorous licks to her until she lifted herself from his mouth. He thought perhaps they were done with this little game of tit for tat until her mouth once again closed on him. She gripped his shaft and began to pump him steadily while she sucked on his swollen, sensitive head. He wanted to push himself up, wanted to flip her over and put her legs over his shoulders while he took her, but his head sank back and he groaned again, feeling paralyzed with pleasure. This wasn’t how he liked to finish, preferred to be buried deep inside of her when he climaxed, feeling her body quiver around him as they locked together, but she had kept him on edge for too long tonight, and he was beginning to ache. He felt himself tighten and throb and knew his release was imminent. 

“Christine, I’m going to--”

She hummed against him, and he saw stars. Her hand continued to pump him firmly through his orgasm, wringing the pulsing pleasure from him as he spurted into her mouth, back arched and toes curling, an inhuman moan ripping from his throat as he came. He sagged boneless to the mattress, deliciously spent. He felt her place a gentle kiss to the tip of his softening member before she climbed off his body. He dragged a finger over his chin, and tasted the sticky wetness there.

“Oh god, I made a mess on you.” She dropped heavily to his side, resting her head on his shoulder. “That was amazing, babe.”  
Her hand stroked soft circles on his stomach, and he sighed in contentment.

“My face has never looked better than it does in this moment, Christine,” he yawned, and she laughed.

“It wouldn't have been so messy if you wouldn't have been so mean,” she laughed accusingly.

“I drew it out for you, you really ought to be thanking me.” 

She sat up and glared down at him. “Or you could have just let me come twice, you asshole.”

.  
.

_i swear i’m not bothering you on your romantic vacation, but if i don’t tell you about this now, i might forget the details_

_it was a SHITSHOW after you guys left_

_remember how i said raoul was a super nice frat bro? well, i still think thats prolly true under normal circumstances but he hates your fucking guts_

_like SO MUCH_

_he lost his fucking mind after you guys left, it was insane_

_he was yelling about christine ruining her life and dressing slutty and all sorts of crap_

_it was all your fault obviously, because you are the devil_

_and that you kept touching her and that you guys were intentionally making out in front of him_

_which now that i think about it you probably were lol_

_so obviously i started defending you because hello?  
← very best wingwoman_

_and THEN phil and lianna started yelling at him for being an asshole all night long which he didn't even bother to deny and phil asked me to please not say anything about it to you guys_

_and I told phil you had planned a whole romantic trip for her and I wouldnt be bothering you because you guys were spending the week getting it on and raoul LOST IT and flipped over a chair_

_i thought he was going to jump through the window_

_so to recap: raoul is normally super nice but you got under his skin and turned him into a psycho and HE HATES YOU, and i want you to teach me how to do that_

_PS i hooked up with that liam asshole in that fancy room you comped me so thanks! dont worry I didnt give him my number_

_I gave him yours_ :)

.  
.

He read the block of texts from Meg with wide eyes and a huge grin. If Raoul Chagny only knew what Christine was actually doing to him at the table, he would have certainly jumped through the window. Leaving his phone charging in the kitchen he continued his search for Christine. 

She'd left their bed after ordering him to clean up his face, and he hadn't been able to find her since. He'd already made a circuit through the rooms on the second floor, she wasn't in the first floor living room or dining room, he was standing in the kitchen, and the alarm for the front door and lower garage was still set. A cool frission of panic shivered up his spine. He moved back to the living room and peered out through the glass doors. Fat flakes of snow fell from the sky in an unbroken curtain, but he thought he could spot a tiny light through the blur of white. He was still naked under his robe, but visions of Christine laying injured in the snow spurred him to jam his feet into the slippers that were still sitting next to the door from when they'd come here in the fall and venture out into the snow.

She was in the hot tub, billows of steam rising around her. She'd pulled her hair up in a bun, and had her head tilted back, a small smile on her face.

“Erik, what took you so long? I'm starting to get pruney.”

“Christine, it’s almost three o’clock in the morning. You're going to catch your death out here.”

She turned in the bubbling water to face him, hair curling in the steam. “You're the crazy one babe, it's freezing out there. Come in with me.” To illustrate her point, she rose up out of the water to her waist. She squealed as the snow hit her, gooseflesh rising on her arms. She crooked a finger seductively at him, and he couldn’t help notice the way her nipples puckered and hardened in the cold. The radiant floors kept snow from building up on the deck, for the Poligny family had spared no expense when building their lakeside retreat, and as she sunk back into the steaming water he sighed in resignation. He carefully tread over the snow-wet flooring and slipped off his thick bathrobe, the dark blue one she had bought him last year for Christmas, hanging it next to her flimsier robe on the hook under the overhang. Gripping the railing, he carefully and quickly stepped down into the steaming, bubbling water.

“Don’t get your head wet, babe. Your ears will freeze off.”

He settled back into the small alcove where their heads would be protected from the snow and pulled her onto his lap, soft curves against sharp planes and angles. The frozen lake stretched out in front of them, dark and still as the snow softly fell, and she pulled his arms around her.

“We started coming here when I was about five or six,” she said softly. “We used to rent a room in one of the houses up on the hill, and it was so fun. There would be a ton of kids around all summer. It was the only time I ever had kids to play with, really. I never had many friends. I was the weird kid, I guess,” she said with a little laugh. 

Erik couldn’t comprehend how that was possible; he’d seen pictures of tiny Christine, she was a little blonde angel with a sweet smile. 

“That’s how I met Phil and Raoul. I had a little red kite, and some bigger kids were trying to take it from me. A gust of wind took it and it blew it into the ocean, and Raoul went running in after it. Phil threatened to tell his dad on the kids and they ran away. After that, we played together every summer. We kept coming even after my mom died...daddy never got over it, he was never the same after she was gone, he was always just sort of sad. Coming here was, I guess a way to remember her? I would spend more and more time playing with Raoul and Phil because he would be so depressed the whole time we were here. I guess that’s why I have such a hard time not having them in my life now.”

He said nothing, just let her talk as he gently stroked her legs under the water. “I wish we would have known each other when we were little, Erik. We could have been the weird kids together.” She reached up to stroke his cheek, and he pressed his lips to her palm. “And we would have grown up in love with each other. I would have written you letters at your horrible boarding school, and you would have sent me flowers on my birthday. And every summer we would have spent every minute of every day together. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

He wondered if her little fairy tale would have been at all true. Adult Christine had been able to see past the mask, past his monstrous appearance, past his awkwardness and anxiety and aversion to people. Would tiny Christine have been half as kind?  
“That’s a lovely thought, angel,” he breathed into her hair.

Her head tilted up as his inclined down to hers, an unspoken choreography of practice and familiarity. Lips met and parted and met again in a soft, slow drag of skin. Lips parted, tongues sliding together. She raised a hand to his neck as he lowered his to cup soft, full breasts. “Erik, thank you for tonight,” she said softly when they parted. “I know it’s not what you would have preferred to do, and you did it for me.”

“Christine, I’d do anything for you,” he whispered, knowing it was true.

Her smile was soft and she reached up to kiss him again. “Good. Then take me inside and make love to me. I don’t care what time it is, we can stay in bed all day tomorrow.”

He caught her full lower lip between his own again, sucking gently before releasing her. He sighed heavily. “Christine, how do you propose we get in the house? We’re going to be dripping wet, we’ll freeze to death.”

“Oh no!” she laughed. “I didn’t think that part through...maybe you should go in first and then bring me out a blanket.” He dropped his head back with a grumble, knowing that was exactly what he’d do. “Protect your dangly bits, babe! They’re my favorite part!”

It was nearly dawn by the time she lay sleeping, head against his chest and her hair spread across them. They’d made love slowly, tenderly, and she had drifted to sleep almost immediately when they’d finished. The sound of her soft cries as he moved above her were seared into his memory. He stroked her back gently as he drifted to sleep with a small smile on his face. For the first time in his life, he felt hopeful for the new year. He was going to build Christine an opera company. They were going to get married. She would be by his side, and it didn’t matter how many tantrums Raoul Chagny threw, nothing would change that.


	12. Chapter 12

He spent the three days preceding the start of the spring semester huddled in bed with an anxiety-induced migraine; dizzy and nauseous, his head pounding and stomach churning.

Christine was overjoyed.

“My poor baby,” she clucked as she fluffed pillows and made tea, poorly concealing her enthusiasm for his infirmity. For three days she kept him bundled under a blanket in their dark bedroom, while she fed him homemade chicken soup and stroked his hair as he trembled. 

“Babe, you’ve barely even had a cold since we’ve been together,” she murmured, pulling his head to her breast after she’d climbed into bed with him that night. He made a pitiful little noise and burrowed against her. He’d never admit it aloud, but he found he rather liked being babied. He had been the sole object of her attention for the last seventy two hours, and wondered if he would receive the same loving treatment if he pretended to be sick every few months. 

“I hate seeing you like this, but I’m glad I had a chance to take care of you for a change, even if you didn’t do anything horribly embarrassing.” 

The second year they were together she’d had the flu. He had used several days of sick time to stay home and care for her, and by the end of the week he’d been peed on, cried on, vomited on, and declared “a keeper.”

“I’ll be fine once classes start,” he croaked. 

Spending the week before a new semester like this had once been a normal routine, but the past two years hadn’t been nearly this bad. The class load he was teaching was doubled this semester, which meant twice as many hours spent at the front of a lecture hall on display, twice as many sets of eyes following his every move, staring at the mask, and twice as many chances for something to go horrifically wrong. His nerves would ease once he settled into a routine by the end of the first week, his guts would unclench, and the persistent throbbing behind his right eye would fade.

When the first day arrived, he’d walked into his seven a.m. lit class with his head down, juggling his water bottle and coffee in one hand and his phone in the other, as he glared at a cryptic text from Khan that had come immediately after a sweeter-worded message from Christine.

_Good luck, babe! You’ll be fine and it’ll be over before you know it. Try not to throw up, and don’t forget to breathe. I love you_!!

And then

_Just remember that I only work here--you’ve done this to yourself_

Once the coffee--which was probably too optimistic, considering the state of his stomach, he reflected--was safely deposited on the desk at the front of the room, he looked up and froze.  
He’d been annoyed when he saw the room assignment for this class, which was two floors away from his small office, lessening his ability to sequester himself away as soon as the class ended. And now he knew why. The classrooms on the first floor were larger, wider, with tiered rows of elevated seating. Seats which were completely full.

He backed out of the room robotically. When the door had clicked shut, separating him from what had felt like a thousand eyes, he took off down the hallway at a full run. When he burst into Nadir’s office minutes later, the older man gave a cry of surprise, dropping the McDonald’s breakfast sandwich he was biting into.

“What the--your class starts in two minutes, what are you doing here?!”

“I can’t do this, Nadir. There’s a hundred of them! And this is the early class!” He raked a trembling hand through his hair and shook his head. “No...no, I can’t do this. I quit.”

Khan’s face screwed up in a scowl. “Well I don’t accept your resignation, so get your ass back to that room right this instant.” Erik took a deep breath to argue, but Nadir plowed on. “And there’s not a hundred of them, it’s sixty five.” He held up a hand to fend off rebuttal. “And yes, I know that’s nearly double the class size of last year. I don’t know what you’re doing in there, but your sections are the first to fill up! Hence the larger room, to accomodate more tuition paying bodies. Higher education is a business, Erik...and like I said, you did this to yourself. Your class starts, well, a minute ago, so get back in there _now_.”

Erik turned resignedly, trying to focus on Christine’s words on encouragement.

_You’ll be fine and it’ll be over before you know it. Don’t forget to breathe_.

He stopped one last time in the doorway. “Is that halal?” he questioned, pointing accusingly at the half-eaten McMuffin. Nadir’s face blanched, and he harrumphed triumphantly. “I didn’t think so. I’m telling Sanaz!” 

Nadir sat back with an exhausted sigh once the masked man had stomped out. “Georgia! Aren’t you here to keep people out of my office?” he yelled to his assistant in the next room. Her dry response was immediate.

“You can’t tell that man anything, and you don’t pay me enough to try.”

 

The second class of the day brought more of the same, and had the addition of a cluster of giggling young woman who seated themselves near the front of the room. Meg. He was vibrating with fury as he jabbed at his phone after his debacle of a third class.

_I’m going to fucking cut you_.  
.  
.

He’d barely seen Meg since they had returned together from their travels over break. She had planned to stay with her mother from Christmas to just after New Year’s Day, and would have returned to her campus apartment while Erik and Christine were still at the lake, had her cat not derailed her plans. 

Christine had spoken to her on the third day of their trip. They’d been curled up on the sofa in front of the fire, Christine looking smug and satisfied after their late morning activities on the sheepskin rug in front of said fireplace. He had asked her to walk on his back after he’d gotten up early to shovel out the apron of their driveway in anticipation of Christine wanting to leave the house that day. After changing out of his frozen, wet clothes, he’d stretched out on the rug in front of the fire, tossing his t-shirt on the sofa.

“Erik, this is a terrible idea,’ she’d insisted. “You have me confused with someone dainty. And light. Meg, you have me confused with Meg! I come from hearty, solid viking stock. I’m going to break your back.”

He scowled up at her. “Christine, have I ever said no when you want me to rub your feet? Let me answer that for you--no, I have not.”

She grumbled under her breath about him getting off on rubbing her feet, but she still gingerly stepped on to his back, making him hiss in satisfaction. Once she’d gotten a few satisfying cracks from the narrow column of vertebrae, she carefully stepped off. Sitting on his bony backside, she leaned forward and dug her elbow into his shoulder blades and neck until he was pliant beneath her. “That’s it, you’re doing this every week,” he’d groaned.

“Hmmm...that depends on what you’ll do for me, I think.”  
She’d rolled him to his back and slipped her hand down the front of the soft lounge pants he’d changed into. His eyes fluttered shut as she stroked him. “Babe, I think you’re purring,” she’d whispered before she sucked at her favorite spot on his neck. She tugged the pants down his hips. 

“Are you _ever_ satisfied?” He tugged her earlobe with his teeth as he rapidly responded to her touch. Three days into their little getaway and they’d barely spent ten minutes vertical, he thought.

“Do you have somewhere more important to be, Erik?” Kicking off her yoga pants, she climbed into her favorite position, astride his narrow hips. The long finger he stroked against her found her slick and ready. He growled as she sank down on him, enveloping him in her tight velvet warmth; there was no where else in the world he needed to be other than right there, and there never would be again. 

“I love being on vacation with you,” she’d murmured against his neck, wrapped in his arms after they’d both been sated. Once they’d cleaned up and righted their clothing, they’d relocated to the more comfortable sofa, where she’d called Meg as he dozed, nestled at her side.

“Oh no!” Christine had cried out in dismay, jostling him awake. He snuffled against her, and her fingers spread through his hair before shushing him soothingly, pushing his face to her breast.  
He relaxed into the soft warmth of her body, his eyes slipping shut, and he forced them open again.

_Get a grip, you’re not an infant_

He’d had his nightmare several times in the week before New Year’s Eve. He only remembered it with certainty once or twice, the melancholy melody playing at the edges of his consciousness, but every time he woke in the morning with his face pressed to Christine’s breast and her hand cradled at the the base of his skull, he knew he’d had the dream. She had become all too comfortable employing this surefire way to soothe him, and he had visions of Christine removing her top in public anytime his anxiety got the better of him. 

“Don’t you dare, Meg, he’ll be traumatized! We’re leaving on Sunday, I’ll text you when we’re on the road...I know, he planned for Friday, but I don’t want to leave yet, we’re having such a nice time. It’s no trouble at all, honest. Of course he won’t be mad, are you kidding? He’d do anything for you. You’re on the way...of course. Give Lenny lots of kisses from me! Ok, see you then...byeee!”

“We’re picking up Meg on the way home, I take it?” he asked sleepily.

“Yes, that’s okay, isn’t it? Leonard is sick and she’s worried about bringing him on the bus.”

“Of course it is. As you said, it’s on the way.” He jerked back suddenly. “Wait, what bus? She took a bus all the way to her mom’s?”

“How did you think she got there? Flapped her little ears and flew?” She pulled him back down and guided his head to rest against her. “We didn’t all get german sports cars when we turned sixteen, Erik.”

His brow furrowed at her words. He knew she was right of course, and hated that being born into wealth occasionally made him oblivious to the real life struggles the people around him faced.

“Don’t look upset, babe.” She’d leaned down and kissed the scrunched bridge above his nasal cavity, and it never failed to amaze him that she could do so without a trace of revulsion in her eyes. “Go back to sleep for a while. Then you’re getting up and making me a grilled cheese, and I want to go shopping this afternoon. And tonight you’re taking me to that nice restaurant that we passed on the way in.” She pulled off her tank top and brought her fuzzy blanket around them up to her shoulders, drawing his head to her breast again. He hated that he was so easily manipulated, hated that he really _was_ a giant baby, but her pink nipple seemed made for his mouth. His eyes slid shut as he suckled, and her fingers once again threaded through his hair.

.  
.

The neighborhood consisted of small well-kept bungalows with postage-stamp sized yards. It reminded Erik of the small coastal towns he was from, where the massive DeBecque homes with their sprawling grounds were the outliers. His sleek Mercedes looked out of place as he pulled into the driveway Christine directed him to. His stomach was in knots, and his lungs were having a difficult time expanding. 

Christine felt the tension rolling off him and placed a soothing hand on his bony knee. “Just breathe, babe.” He closed his eyes and tried to draw in a slow breath, focusing on the warm pressure of her hand and her soft voice.

Meg greeted them nervously at the door. “As always, you guys are amazing. Thank you so much for doing this, I’m so worried about him. We have an appointment at his vet for tomorrow. Mom is insisting,” she threw an annoyed look over her shoulder, “that you guys come in and eat something.”

“Where is he?” Christine cried, entering the house. “Where's my poor kitty? Hi, Ms. Giry!”

“Erik, this is my mom, Annette,” Meg said quietly, and he didn't miss the look she fixed on her mother--fierce and challenging. “Mom, this is my good friend, Erik DeBecque.”

Annette Giry was an older version of her daughter, dark and petite. “So this is the famous Erik! A pleasure to meet you.”

He winced at the familiar greeting, remembering similar words from Christine’s aunt, right down to the slightly sarcastic tone of voice. “Ma’am,” he said quietly, meeting her extended hand with long, cold fingers.

He felt Annette’s eyes on him for the entirety of the thirty minutes they spent in the small house. Christine ate her pie and chattered happily, but Meg was uncharacteristically quiet. As soon as Annette turned her back at the sink in the small kitchen, Erik deftly swapped his untouched plate around for Christine’s. When Meg brought her bags out of her bedroom, he jumped up with his keys, eager for the chance to escape the claustrophobic room. Disappointment was a sharp taste on the back of his tongue when he lowered the trunk of his car to see Annette Giry waiting for him on the small front porch.

“She’s angry with me. I told her she shouldn’t be spending so much time with a man who’s marrying her best friend, not if she wants to find one of her own.”

He swallowed hard, but said nothing, slowly coming around from the back of the car.  
“But I suppose I should be thanking you. She was...in a very dark place earlier this year. I’d never seen her like that. There was nothing I could say that made it any better, nothing I could do...I don’t think I’ve ever felt so helpless. I was so worried for her and there was nothing I could do. You can’t imagine what that’s like Mr. DeBecque, seeing your only child in so much pain and not being able to help her.”

She was quiet for a moment and Erik said nothing, but thought about the Meg that had been in his class at the beginning of the year, the one who had come to dinner that first night he’d been home, with the smile that never reached her eyes and the tense, unhappy expression she always wore.

“And then you started having dinner with her, and it was like a light being flipped back on.”  
She laughed then, a little bitterly to Erik’s ears. “Do you know, when she decided she wanted to pursue ballet professionally, I was thrilled. I thought, she’ll meet some cultured rich man who will treat her well and she’ll get out of this slum.” The laugh came again. “I never imagined he’d already be engaged to her best friend.”

The anxiety he’d had over meeting this woman was washed away in the offense he felt at her words as he felt heat steal up his neck. If he’d had nostrils, they’d be flaring, Erik thought. “I’ve never acted in an untoward way with your daughter, Ms. Giry. Our friendship is strictly platonic, and there’s no confusion about that on either side.”

“You sent her a box of designer dresses, Mr. DeBecque. What kind of man spends that kind of money on a woman he doesn’t expect something from?”

“The kind with very few friends and more money than he could ever spend?” he shot back. It was his turn to laugh sharply. “She and I attended a concert together before the holidays and she was self conscious all night. She’s going to be attending more events like that this year, and I want her to enjoy herself, but she needs to feel like she’s good enough to be there.”

The older woman pursed her lips and looked away at his words, and he knew he’d touched a nerve. Meg was smart and independent, and certainly didn’t need to rely on a man. But that wasn’t going to appease her mother, he knew. _She only wants what she thinks is best for her_ , as misguided as it was. He thought of kind, eager to please eyes looking at Meg in fascination, raising her hand to smiling lips as she laughed delightedly.

Some cultured rich man who will treat her well.

“Ms. Giry, your daughter is my closest friend, and you can trust that I will take exception to anyone who doesn’t treat her well,” he went on quietly. _Fuckhead Remy certainly learned that lesson_. “She is smart and courageous, and a force to reckon with. Your daughter _sparkles_ when she smiles, Ms. Giry...and I happen to know other rich, cultured men. ”

The older woman blinked, her mouth dropping open in surprise at his words. When she laughed again, the bitter edge was gone. “Well, I can certainly see why she’s so protective of you,” she mused. “She threatened to never speak to me again if I made you feel uncomfortable or said anything about your--,” she cut off abruptly and cleared her throat. “You’re clearly very important to her. Anyways, all I wanted to say was thank you. Thank you for being a good friend to her when she needed one.”

“What’s going on out here?” Meg suddenly appeared in the doorway, arms crossed and scowling at her mother. “Mother? What are you talking about?”

“Calm down,” Erik said with affected irritation. “We were talking about your performance next month. Is that okay, or did we need to get written approval for all discussion topics?”

Meg pursed her lips and shot him an evil look as her mother laughed again. “Sweetie, I have leftovers for you take back. Erik, you and Christine are taking a pie home, and I’ll hear no argument about it.”

Annette briskly moved into the house as Meg waited for Erik to come up the steps. “Thanks for this, for coming to get me,” she said quietly, her gaze fixed on the ground. “I’m sorry you guys got stuck here, I know this isn’t anything like what you’re used to...” she shrugged and met his eye at last “...but it’s home.”

He looked up and eyed the peak of the house and nodded at her words. “There’s a parent concerned about their child, there’s people here who love each other. You’re right, it’s nothing at all like what I’m used to.”

She caught his hand and he returned the firm pressure for a moment before she moved ahead of him through the door. He reached out and gave the back of her hair a sharp tug, leaping back and letting the screen swing shut before she could whirl on him in outrage as he cackled at her.  
.  
.

_that’s not a very nice thing to threaten me with on the first day of school_

_OMG wait is it happening?? standing room only?_

_are there a million girls??? I’M SO EXCITED!_

_where are you? i’m coming to your office_!

Thirty minutes later, there was a knock on his office door. He growled in frustration. It was the first bloody day, what could they possibly want? Meg had her slim legs thrown over the arm of her chair, her toe perfectly aimed up toward the ceiling. She’d spent the better part of the last fifteen minutes in hysterical laughter as Erik recounted his morning, including describing the trio of girls in his third class who were almost certainly looking him up and down as he nervously paced at the front of the room, who Meg definitely knew were undergrads from the dance department. 

“They don’t even need to take music lit until grad school! Oh my god, this is amazing...if you and Christine are interested in playing with partners, you’ll probably have your pick!”  
He’d felt himself flush scarlet at her words and flung a pen at her.

“Come in,” he called in aggravation, hoping it was Nadir alerting him that his classes were cancelled the rest of the week. 

“Mr. DeBecque, I’m so glad you’re back!” Warm brown eyes met his and Erik sighed in exasperation. 

“It’s just Erik, Daniel.”

The swivel chair spun around towards the door, and the young man’s smile brightened.  
“Hello again, Marguerite.”

.  
.

Three hours later, he found himself fidgeting nervously on a bench across from Daniel, in an alcove in the theater district administration building. The intern was trying to negotiate a larger rehearsal space for the chamber orchestra, despite Erik’s protestations that it was unnecessary. Conrad Bryson had a late studio, so Erik and Geoff Pope, the flautist, had been drafted to be the musical representatives of the group. 

“So...Meg is your...friend?” Daniel asked hesitantly. Erik raised an unseen eyebrow and the young man flushed. “I wasn’t sure, I thought perhaps she was a sister,” he clarified, still blushing. Erik thought he seemed hopeful for an affirmative answer.

“Do we look like we’re related?”

The younger man laughed nervously and shrugged. “You’re both slim, dark haired. Maybe? So...does that means no?”

Erik considered Daniel's words. He'd never thought about being anyone's brother, not really. He’d suspected that siblings would have resulted in torment beyond school, in having no respite or safe haven, but he couldn't deny that his friendship with Meg resembled a close, somewhat antagonistic sibling relationship. Christine had said as much on more than one occasion by that point. 

“For heaven’s sake, call me Meg,” she’d said with a beguiling smile when she’d spun around to face Daniel in Erik’s doorway. “No one calls me Marguerite except for my grandmother and this idiot.” She’d gracefully moved to stand. “And please, sit, I’ve been keeping it warm for you. I need to get to studio.” She turned back to Erik with a glinting smile. “Text me if anything fabulous happens, okay? I’ll come find you later.” She flashed bright white teeth at the younger man as moved to let her pass.  
“Have a good day...Meg,” he’d called out as she left, beaming at the smirk she shot him over her shoulder.

“She’s a very close friend,” Erik responded slowly.  
Daniel nodded emphatically, eager to agree that Erik and Meg were just friends, he noted in amusement. The young man had always reminded Erik of an eager to please spaniel; exuberant and confident. It was unusual to see him so tongue-tied. 

“But I certainly think of her as a sister. I’m just glad we were able to spend the holidays together this year,” he continued a bit airily, making a mental note to bring Meg up to speed on his lie. “She got out of a relationship before Christmas, so it was a nice change of scenery.”

“Oh. Was...was it a serious relationship?”

“Hmm, not terribly serious. He certainly wasn’t good enough for her.”

They were interrupted by Geoff Pope, who dropped onto the bench next to Daniel with an air of exhaustion. “Hello, gentlemen. What the hell are we asking the committee for again? Oh, and congratulations, Erik. That rock Christine is sporting looks like it cost more than my car. I feel like I need to ask Khan to pretend I’m also his long lost associate from way back when and pay me whatever it is they’re paying you.”

Erik rolled his eyes. “They’re supposed to be paying me?”

Daniel gave Erik a toothy smile, looking enormously pleased with this new revelation. “Congratulations, sir!”

Erik stayed quiet as Pope made small talk with the intern, only listening to the two men with half an ear. “What kind of name is Barbezac anyway?” Pope was asking. The younger man cleared his throat uncomfortably before answering. 

“The family name is actually de Castelot-Barbezac. My father shortened it when he was in school...it’s french. Sir.”

Pope nodded and began to question again the reason for the meeting, but his voice was a dull buzz in Erik’s ears. His head had swung around at Daniel’s words.

Castelot-Barbezac.

The name was certainly one he knew, one he should have recognized from the start of the year.  
How had he allowed himself to grow so sloppy, so oblivious? For pity’s sake, he had spent every minute of his life since adolescence analyzing every situation, looking for any angle he could exploit; for the fragility in the people around him, and how he could best use it all to his advantage. How had he gotten involved with this orchestra without knowing everything about the people he’d be working with?

_Because you’re happy. Because for the first time, you have someone else to focus on_.

The Castelot-Barbezac fortune could fund three opera companies, he thought, and he'd been wasting time, pussyfooting around for an entire semester. There was no conceivable way Daniel was merely an “intern” for a nothing chamber orchestra, and he wondered what angle he had missed.

He mentally castigated himself as the two other men continued to talk. _Such a rookie mistake, so late in the fucking game_. The sound of Geoff Pope’s cell phone split the air and echoed down the marble hallway, and he quickly excused himself outside. Erik felt the intern’s eyes on him as Pope moved down the hall, and as soon as the door had swung shut, Daniel began to speak.

“Was it your grandmother who was a DuPont?”

Erik stiffened and smiled tightly. Unlike himself, Daniel did all of his homework, clearly.

“Great-grandmother, I believe. Is your father the Baron?”

“Mm, that would be my uncle. Isn’t it interesting, both of us here, pretending to be something we’re not?” 

All of the tongue-tied stammering from just a little while ago was gone. He’d never seen the calculating look in the younger man’s eyes before, or perhaps he just hadn’t been looking for it.

_Stupid, so fucking stupid_. 

Erik knew he had grossly underestimated the man sitting opposite him, had been thoroughly outmaneuvered, to what end he had no idea...hell, he hadn’t even realized there was a game being played other than his own. He wondered what his folly was going to cost him.

“What is it that you want?”

Daniel leaned forward on his elbows towards him, his eyes bright. “Did you know that the ballet is currently in arrears with their lease at the Majestic? The theater company wants to take it over and leave the Palais because the building needs too many repairs. The ballet could never afford the Palais stage alone, and they don’t have the subscription base for a bailout. That beautiful old theater is going to be left to rot, and the ballet will be in danger of going the same way of the old opera company.” 

How, _how_ had so many fine details had escaped his attention?  
_Because you’ve let yourself become too busy, too distracted. Because no one likes you. Because you don’t have anyone on the inside_. 

Daniel sat up then, hands still locked on his knees, his eyes dancing with poorly concealed excitement. “The ballet company needs to be absorbed by deeper pockets who can afford the Palais. How badly do you want an opera company, Erik?” 

Erik jumped, feeling as though he had just wrapped his hand around a live wire, and felt the jolt of electricity, of _possibility_ course through him.

“What do you suppose two men with our combined wealth and a shared vision could accomplish, Mr. DeBecque?”

“We’re not here to discuss a bigger rehearsal space for the chamber group,” he said slowly, and Daniel nodded, happy that Erik had finally caught onto the game. “What exactly is it that you’re proposing, Baron?”

“Why sir, I thought that would be obvious. Daniel smiled widely, leaning forward conspiratorially, and the glint in his eye made Erik shiver.

“I propose a coup.”


	13. Chapter 13

The next several weeks passed in a blur of rising tension. Erik felt as though he were cresting along the edge of a giant wave that he knew would eventually swallow him up, dragging him down to the still silence under the water, and he struggled to keep his head above the rising surf.

Khan had burst into his office three days after the semester had begun, fit to be tied.  
“Please tell me you didn't get engaged over break, and I had to hear about it from Geoff Pope,” he started, nearly trembling with rage. “Please tell me the man I've known since he was a teenager didn't ask the woman, to whom _I_ introduced him,” he stopped to glower, “to marry him over two weeks ago, and I am the very last person in this building to hear about it. Because if that is the case,” he jabbed an accusing finger at the masked man, “then he should know my feelings are _very_ hurt.”

Erik flinched. He didn’t like feeling responsible for other people’s feelings, he barely liked being responsible for his own. Nadir wasn’t his friend, not truly. Their relationship was rooted in obligation and guilt and desperation, and he still managed to feel like the wayward youth he’d once been when pinned under that jade gaze. 

Even still, he felt a flicker of guilt at the man’s words. It was true, he hadn’t told him that he’d finally asked Christine to marry him. But then again, he rationalized, he hadn’t told anyone at all. Christine had spread the news to seemingly everyone she knew, had of course mentioned it in the school of music’s office where she worked. Technically, he was absolved of this accused crime, he thought. _The meddling old fool was always too sentimental_. 

“You heard right, we’re engaged,” he started resignedly. “But!” he held up his hands to fend of rebuke when Khan threw his own hands in the air in dismay. “ _I_ didn’t tell anyone! I didn’t deliberately leave you out, honestly. Pope saw Christine in the office the first day of classes, she was probably talking about flowers with Georgia.”

In truth, the wedding talk had begun to concern him a bit. When Christine had said she wanted “a small wedding,” he’d hoped that meant they could sign a paper at the courthouse and spend the day snuggling in bed. He’d been wrong. “No more than seventy five people, babe.” Her eyes had been wide and innocent, but he wasn’t fooled.

“Christine, that’s fifty people too many,” he’d insisted. He knew her aunt and uncle and her cousins and their spouses would have to be invited. “Meg and her mother,” he’d ticked off on his fingers. _With the Baron as her plus one if I can help it_. “Phillippe and Lianna, Nadir and Sanaz. Who else needs to be there?!”

Her eyes dropped the ruse of innocence and narrowed in annoyance. “Erik, that’s ridiculous. It’s our wedding, I want all of our friends and family there, everyone who loves us!”

“That _is_ all of our friends and family! I have one friend and you’re the only one who loves me. Everyone else is for you!”

She’d rolled her eyes dramatically, shaking her head as if he’d suggested getting married naked in Times Square. “Erik, you’re an idiot. Don’t worry about wedding planning, okay, babe? All you have to do is show up, I promise.”

He did his best to reassure Khan. “Anyways, it wasn’t something I’d planned, it just happened. And then we went out of town! And I was sick when we came back, and then classes started...It’s not like I was deliberately avoiding telling you, I haven’t told a single person about it.”

At length, the older man’s look of consternation melted into a watery smile, and Erik was mortified when he found himself engulfed in a suffocating hug. “I’m so very happy for you both. And to think, if you hadn’t come here…” 

Erik shook himself out of Khan’s grasp and cleared his throat. “Yes, well. Ahem.” Nadir’s smile continued unabated as he asked if a date had been set.

“No, and I’m the wrong person to ask about anything. Six months ago she said she’d be fine with something private, and now she’s talking about close to a hundred people. She sits in bed at night on..on _Pinterest_! I don’t know what to do!”

Khan placed a reassuring hand on the younger man’s shoulder with a smile, before taking his leave. “There’s only one thing you _can_ do, Erik. Stay out of her way.”

With Nadir placated, he found he could potentially blame engagement jitters for his increasingly erratic behavior. He and Daniel had been meeting since that first day of class, and both men agreed that they had better have all of their ducks in a row before they made their move on the Palais. They were going to need the support or the district trustees, a subscriber base, donors...Erik had been thinking through options for months, and he hated that he needed to rely on the younger man to lay the groundwork of their scheme. Daniel was doing his due diligence continuing to gather financial information on the respective groups in the theater district, while Erik had begun to move around his money.

For the first time since he’d inherited his grandfather’s fortune, he needed to know, really know what he was worth, and how liquid his assets were. The amount on the balance sheet from his money manager had left him short of breath and shaking. He’d fired off a panicked email to the estate lawyer while on the phone with the accountant. After the two hour call, going line by line over stocks, various holdings, real estate, and liquid assets sitting untouched in half a dozen bank accounts, he was wringing his hands and pacing frantically by the time the estate lawyer phoned.

“Mr. DeBecque, I applaud your forward thinking on this matter, truly, but this seems a bit premature. If you and the young lady are not married yet…”  
Erik cut him off several times before an exasperated tone entered the man’s voice.  
“Alright! This is what we’ll do, since you feel so strongly about these changes happening immediately. We’ll change the wording of the will to reflect that your spouse and future children will be the listed beneficiaries. Once you and Ms. Daaé are wed and a notarized marriage certificate is on file in your county of residence, we can update the documents with her name, and will continue to do so with any children you may have. I will have the new document hand delivered by a courier this week for you to sign. And sir, congratulations on your upcoming nuptials.”

When the courier arrived two days later, the envelope he presented had included a detailed pre-nup. Erik had flung it aside in annoyance, and thumbed through the amended will while mumbling about presumptuous solicitors. When he had confirmed the changes had been made as discussed, the signed documents were sent back with the flustered courier. 

He had sat brooding at his piano for the rest of the afternoon, his hands unconsciously drifting into the melody from his nightmare.

_Your spouse and future children_

He and Christine had discussed children exactly once, prompted by a scathing conversation he’d had with Meg a few months prior, while they killed time at the cafe. 

“How have you guys never talked about kids? Seriously? Isn’t this something you should discuss before you get married?”

“We’re not even engaged, Meg. It doesn’t seem particularly relevant right now.” The little blue velvet box was still living in his pocket at that point, mocking him and growing heavier by the day.

“Yeah, but it might be extremely relevant in a few years! You’re already in your thirties, right? Do you want kids?”

“I don’t know!” he’d cried in exasperation. “I never thought I’d ever…” He cut off in embarrassment. He never thought he’d ever be in a relationship with anyone, that the question of children would ever be something he’d need to consider.

Meg’s eyes softened as he looked away, the tips of his ears turning pink. “Erik, you’re allowed to want things out of this relationship. That’s all I’m saying. You guys should talk about it.”

That night, when he’d climbed into bed with her after she’d cajoled him away from the piano, he decided he’d broach the topic with subtlety. She was sitting up in bed reading, and he’d curled up at her side, his head against her stomach. Her fingers stroked his hair and it was a soft, quiet moment...until he blurted out “Christine, do you want a baby?”

She’d dropped her tablet, peering down at him through her little red-framed glasses. “What? What are you talking about? You know I have an IUD, right?”

His exasperated huff blew warm against her soft skin. “ _Obviously_ I know that, Christine.” He pulled away so he could look up at her. “I mean...eventually. We’ve never talked about it before. Do...do you want to have kids?”

She set her tablet on the bedside table, and slipped off her glasses. When she turned back to him, the little furrow between her brows was present. “Honestly? No, I don’t think I do.”

“Oh.” He couldn’t explain the way his chest had tightened at her words, and thought quietly for several long moments. “Do you...do you not want to have children at all? Or do you not want them...with me?”

“Oh, Erik!” she moaned. “Babe, why would you even think that?” She tugged his shoulders until he rested against her again, ignoring the way he flinched. “Erik, that’s not it at all. I mean I’ve spent too long and worked too hard to let my career take a backseat to having kids. I’m already starting late, half of these girls in auditions are younger than me.” She sunk her fingers into his hair as she spoke.

“And in all honesty, we’re selfish people. We’re set in our ways and we like our routine. Half the time I feel like I already have a baby,” she laughed. He winced and pulled away again. “And you should feel the same way,” she said firmly, not letting him escape the circle of her arms. “You’re forever cooking for me, and cleaning up after me. You do the laundry, you help me with homework. I love it just being us, and I don’t want anything to change right now.”

“But I reserve the right to change my mind in the future,” she added with a smile.

She’d gone to sleep a short while later curled around him, her breath warm on his back, a hand splayed over his stomach. He stared sleeplessly at the wall for a long time, unsure if her words had left him feeling relieved or heartbroken. She was right, he did like their routine and generally uncomplicated life together, but the thought of Christine holding a tiny baby with wide blue eyes and golden hair to her breast made his breath catch and warmth pool in his chest. He pondered on the picture in his head until his eyes slid shut and the image shifted in his treacherous mind; soft blonde curls morphed into unruly raven locks, the rosy cheeks sinking and twisting until the babe at her breast shared his ruin of a face, and he gasped, startling himself awake.

It was the only time they had discussed children, and he was glad of it.

The first month of the semester had gone by in a blink. Christine had begun narrowing down her options for the summer, and needed to send her audition video out soon. They’d planned on taking short weekend trips to the handful of operas on the west coast she was looking into, although the thought of potentially being so far from home for the summer made him anxious, especially now that his opera company scheme was being set in motion. Christine, as always, remained oblivious.

 _babe, these are adorable. you can wear them when we’re in Arizona_!

He squinted dubiously at the photo that accompanied the text. Bubblegum pink boxer briefs were dotted with tiny green cacti, and he recognized her pointed nails clutching the packaging.

_Christine, what the hell are those, and why do you have them? I don’t want cactus spines anywhere below my belt, and those are very pink._

_lol! i have them because you’re going to wear them and you’re going to like it. You can wear something other than black, it won’t kill you. And i’ll take them off you with my teeth, i promise_.

.  
.

That last night at the lakehouse, Christine had whispered that they should stay there, secluded and happy, and now Erik desperately wished that he had taken her words at face value. They'd been in the hot tub, staring out into the blackness of the frozen wilderness beyond, as they had done every night since they'd arrived, at her insistence. That last night there had been no snow, and as she'd rested her head against his neck, she'd made the suggestion to run away from real life.

“Let's stay here, Erik. Let's not go back tomorrow,” she'd whispered. “We have everything we need right here.” She'd tilted her head up to kiss his jaw. “I don't want you to go back to work, I don't want to think about auditions. We can stay here, and I'll sing for you every day, and we'll make love in the middle of the afternoon. You'll cook for me, and I'll go to the farmer's market. Every Sunday we can have breakfast at the little diner in town. We won't have any responsibilities other than to make each other happy.”

“Mmmm, that sounds perfect,” he sighed against her temple. “I’m sold. Let’s stay.” She twisted up to kiss him.

“You think I’m joking.”

He laughed. “Actually, I half think you’re serious.”

She settled against him once more and he tightened his arms. “I half am,” he heard her softly respond.

He'd always known Christine was fanciful, that she loved fairy tales and stories, that her father had brought her up on a steady diet of dreams and imagination. He didn't realize how deeply entrenched Christine was into her fantasies until that week. Each night she’d added embellishments to her imaginings of her having known him as a child, instead of Raoul Chagny.

Their age difference didn’t exist in her fantasy world, unless it suited her storyline. He’d taken her to school dances, had been there for her first solo recital, had kissed her for the first time on her fifteenth birthday. At first, he had thought this sweet little alternate reality was for his benefit, knowing as she did of his jealousy over her previous relationship with the popinjay, and having virtually no happy memories of his own adolescence. But as each night came and the history she created for them grew more detailed, he suspected she enjoyed this fantasy world as much as he did. 

“People camp on the other side of the lake,” she’d told him one night. “The guys would do it sometimes when we were teenagers, but I was always afraid to go. But I wouldn’t have been afraid to go with you.”

“I used to go camping sometimes,” he admitted. “On the beach though, not in the woods.” She had turned in his arms, eyes shining. 

“Really? You never told me that...what beach? Who did you go with?”

He’d hesitated for a moment, but things seemed so much easier to talk about with her here in the cold dark, confessions came across his tongue unbidden in her fantasy world. “I would go by myself. My family’s house isn’t far from the ocean,” he continued, ignoring her little squawk at learning this for the first time. “There was a beach where you could camp year round, and I’d go there. It has wild ponies and it’s not pretty terrain, so not many tourists stayed the night there.”

“ _Ponies _?!” she gasped. Her blue eyes were wide with wonder, and he thought she looked so beautiful, so childlike in that moment.__

__“Yes, ponies.” He thought about those nights the beach when he'd driven out to the coast, feeling half a world away from the home he wasn't able to return to, even though it was just over the causeway. If only Christine had been with him. “We would go there together, and I’d always tell you not to feed the ponies, but you’d still sneak them apples. We would lie on the hood of my car and look at the stars and listen to the ocean all night long.”_ _

__“ _Oh_ ,” the little sigh that broke over her lips made his eyes prick with tears. “That sounds perfect, Erik.”_ _

__Her eyes were glossy then, and she was kissing him, and he found that he quite liked indulging in her fantasy world. “We can go there, Christine. I’ll take you there this summer,” he’d promised as she kissed her way down his neck._ _

__.  
._ _

__He had covertly been meeting with Daniel to discuss their plans before and after the chamber group’s rehearsal, eliminating any suspicion they might have raised being seen with each other otherwise. Erik had been feeding a steady diet of horror stories about the crumbling nature of the Palais to Geoff Pope, whom he knew that semester had started playing with the theater company’s in-house orchestra, filling a chair in the pit when the massive touring companies of Broadway shows came through town. Erik had known the man since he had come to the university, and if there was anything he could say was true about Pope, it was that the man was an incurable gossip, and that he moved in all of the circles Erik and Daniel needed to reach._ _

__The week before Meg’s opening, Erik had leaned over the makeshift table in the chamber group’s rehearsal space as Daniel excitedley recounted a committee meeting he’d attended with his parents the previous evening. The story about there being significant mold in the walls of the upper floors at the Palais, thanks to extensive water damage and a shoddy repair job, was a lie that had come from Erik’s own mouth. Pope had reliably spread the tale in the orchestra, the conductor had mentioned it to the director of the black box theater, who’s actors rehearsed in the alleged mold-infected space, the director had taken it directly to the theater management office, where Debienne had gone to the trustees, asking for money to investigate the issue. The committee had been in an uproar, urging the plan to annex the ballet company’s delinquent lease at the Majestic._ _

__“I’m going to make sure I’m at every committee meeting going forward. Things are starting to happen! We need to be ready to act by late spring, I think...you know how these sorts of decisions get dragged out. I think my father is starting to suspect I’m up to something, but all I need to do is mention I’ve been spending time with you discussing the chamber group, and all’s forgiven. My parents like to pretend you are their personal discovery, and they tell everyone they know about you, sir.”_ _

__Daniel launched into a scarily accurate impression of his mother’s voice, and Erik couldn’t resist chuckling. “He plays like _Mozart_ , it’s simply _amazing_ , and to think that teaches at _our_ very own university!”_ _

__“Then I suppose they’d be overjoyed if you attended an event with my fiancée and I? There’s a dance performance we’re seeing next weekend; you really should come, I think you’ll enjoy it. You’ll never know the talent out there just waiting to be discovered…”_ _

__.  
._ _

__Her head had tipped back, and her nose brushed up the side of his neck. Soft lips had found his pulse point and she kissed it slowly before she settled back once more against him. She raised a painted toe out of the bubbling water and squeaked at the cold._ _

__“Erik, what were we doing when we were sixteen? I was absolutely miserable because I was the only girl in stupid show choir with giant tits and a big ass and they had to change the costume because of me. It was so embarrassing! The director was terrible about it, and I almost quit. Don’t you dare laugh, I just said it was terrible!”_ _

__He reigned in his rich laughter and pulled her closer as she elbowed him, cupping her breasts protectively under the water. “Don’t talk about my girls with such derision. No one needs to appreciate them but me.” Her head dropped back and he whispered against her neck. “Then I was waiting for you at the end of every stupid show choir rehearsal to drive you home, and remind you how beautiful you are.”_ _

__Her smile split her face as she leaned up for another kiss. He was quiet for a moment, content to hold her, but the winking starlight and still darkness promised absolution._ _

__“I was in a detention center when I was sixteen,” he said quietly. “For assault. I was there for six months.”_ _

__Khan had come to see him there, once the trial was over. He remembered the surprise he felt at being informed there was a visitor for him that day, had assumed it was one of the lawyers with more paperwork for him to sign, but nervous jade eyes met his in the visitation room. He hadn’t expected to ever see Nadir Khan again, yet there he was, hands twisting his jacket anxiously, his eyes going wide at the sight of the masked young man being led into the room._ _

__“Mr. Khan,” Erik had greeted uneasily, slipping into the chair opposite him at the long table._ _

__“How are you? Are they treating you well?” Nadir had cautiously asked. “I wanted to come see you before the trial, but...your lawyers said that was not possible.” He swallowed hard. “You--you certainly had a team of them.”_ _

__Nadir had tried to make awkward small talk until Erik had had enough of his stammering and nervous, darting eyes. “Well, thanks for the visit, Mr. Khan. You can to return to your life now,” he’d said snidely, cutting off the copper-skinned man’s rambling. He had just pushed out of his chair when the other man’s voice stopped him._ _

__“Wait, please. I-I need to know why. Please sit down. I need to know why you did it.”_ _

__He’d lowered himself gingerly to the chair before speaking again. “Why does it matter? You’re alive, aren’t you? Would you have rathered I’d kept walking?”_ _

__“No! ...Yes, maybe I do wish that. You’re only sixteen, and now you’re locked up in this place...you don’t even know me, and I need to know why.” Khan’s wild gesticulations tightened to a gesture of supplication, his eyes pleading. “My wife wants to pray for you Mr. DeBecque. We don’t do that! But she needs to understand how this happened, she can’t process why I’m still alive because of and at the expense of a boy we don’t even know being locked away, and I don’t know what to tell her because I don’t know _why_ you did what you did.”_ _

__Erik repeated back the carefully crafted lines about self defense and being a Good Samaritan, and Nadir waved his words away with an exasperated gesture. “Yes, that’s what you said in court. I remember, I was there.” Khan had sunk back in his chair as if he were exhausted with the conversation. Erik sighed and rolled his eyes. The man wasn’t going to go away until he got what he wanted, clearly._ _

__“I wanted to hear you play again,” Erik had replied evenly. “The flyer for the concert that night said you’d be performing that Sunday at the summer series in the park, and I wanted to hear you again. You’re very good, you know.”_ _

__Nadir had sat up with confused eyes. “But if that was all then why--”_ _

__“Those men wanted your cello,” Erik cut in. “The one had a knife. They were going to hurt you, they were already hurting you and you were too pathetic to do anything but beg them not to kill you! If they stole your cello, or left you for dead in that alley, I wouldn’t have been able to hear you play again,” he said simply, shrugging a bit._ _

__“But you were arrested! Neither of us were in the park for music that Sunday!”_ _

__“Yes well, I didn’t think the whole plan through, I suppose.” His voice had grown tight. The plan, as it was, had been to subdue the men who were already doing quite a number on the pitifully helpless cellist. If the one hadn't gotten hold of the mask...he was very ready to be done with this visitation, he’d thought, and pushed his chair out again._ _

__“That’s very disordered thinking, young man,” Nadir had mumbled worriedly._ _

__“I suppose I have a very disordered mind. Thank you for the visit, Mr. Khan. I’d best be returning to my cell.” He didn’t have a cell, of course, but the way Nadir’s eyes had widened in horror was gratifying._ _

__“Wait! They...they said you have nowhere to go, no family that will have you. Th-that you live alone...how is that even legal? One of the lawyers, I overheard them talking--”_ _

__Erik had whirled around to face him again, hands coming down on the table as he leaned over the quivering man. “You don’t need to worry about me, Mr. Khan. I don’t need your help. I am not a victim.” The flush of fury he’d felt faded just as rapidly as it had consumed him, and he’d felt drained by the conversation, had been eager eager to be out of the too-bright room. “Forget about me. Tell your wife to forget about me. You don’t need to trouble yourselves. I’ve always been alone...I don’t need anyone.” He’d turned to leave and was once again stopped by the frantic man._ _

__“Wait! I--they told me you play brilliantly. You said in court you were just helping a fellow musician...I teach, I’m a professor at a conservatory. Please call me when you start university, or if you ever need...please, _please_ keep my number.” Erik had pocketed the proffered business card. He didn’t see Khan for more than eight years after that day._ _

__Her hands stroked soothingly up and down his long legs under the water. “Did you get into a fight? Like with that boy from school?” she asked gently._ _

__He melted slightly under her soft touch. “No. I was coming out of a concert, and there were men attacking...one of the musicians.” He swallowed convulsively, but the gentle glide of her fingers forced him to keep talking. “I-I just wanted to help him. One of the men grabbed at my mask...It was bad, Christine. I did a _lot_ of damage.”_ _

__He heard her soft little coo of comfort and felt her lips again at the pulse in his neck. “See, you've always been my white knight,” she murmured into his damp skin. “And I was there waiting for you to get out. I wrote you a letter every week, and I baked a cake when you came home, and we went to beach and slept under the stars.”_ _

__He’d pulled her sideways across his lap, and her soft, white hands came up out of the steaming water to hold his face as his mouth crashed into hers, and he knew he didn’t deserve her, that she was far too good for him, but it had felt so good to be honest with her for a change, and not have her turn away in disgust or fear._ _

__The next morning she had wanted to walk up to the little town, as he’d watched her do countless times as he spied on her that previous summer. “Christine, that hill is going to be a sheet of ice. You’re going to fall and break your leg and we’ll wind up in the emergency room. There might be a blind nurse there who’ll take a shine to me, and who knows what might happen between us while you’re seeing the doctor.”_ _

__He’d been prepared for the pillow to come flying at his head. He’d been less prepared for her shoe that had struck him in the chest, and completely unprepared for her to launch herself over the sofa, tackling him to the ground, digging into his ribs, where she knew he was insanely ticklish. He allowed her to pin him to the ground and claim herself the victor, if only to stop the high-pitched hysteria that issued from his mouth. The compromise was that they’d driven up the hill to the little downtown, and then walked hand-in-hand up the poorly shoveled sidewalk of main street. To their shock, both the diner and the Lake Guirec souvenir shop were open._ _

__“We didn’t think there would be any shops open at all!” Christine had exclaimed upon entering the little shop selling bric-a-brac._ _

__“Yeah, there’s usually not,” the same bored teeneager Erik remembered from the summer replied, never once looking away from her phone. “But some rich assholes decided to come in on new years, and my mom insists we open anytime there’s tourists in town.”_ _

__Christine had been beside herself trying to hold back her giggles as she piled several items on the counter, feeling compelled to buy something. She’d bought herself and Meg matching Lake Guirec is for Lovers shirts, and hadn’t been able to control her laughter once they’d left the small shop._ _

__The last morning they were there, she had jumped on the bed, forcing him awake. “Christine, I told you we didn’t need to get on the road until noon,” he’d groaned, curling into a large, bony ball on his side._ _

__“So what does that mean? Just because you packed the car last night you thought you could stay in bed until eleven thirty?”_ _

__“That’s exactly what it means,” he grumbled as she crawled under the covers with him. “For chrissake, it's barely eight o’clock. Are we going to be having the same argument for the next forty years?”_ _

__Her nails glided over his chest and down his stomach as he determinedly buried his face in the pillow. She disappeared under the down comforter and despite his resolve to remain sleeping, he grunted in pleasure when her mouth made contact with his soft member._ _

__“Don't think you can change my mind about getting up, Christine. This isn't going to work,” he'd warned her as he rolled on to his back, giving her better access to him._ _

__She let him fall from her mouth as she pinched his thigh, making him jump. “Yeah, it looks like you're fighting me real hard here,” she muttered, giving him a few firm strokes before taking him back into her mouth, sucking him to hardness._ _

__She’d climbed astride him with a smile, and laced her finger with his as she moved over him slowly. She’d gasped he when pushed himself to sit up against her, meeting her mouth as they moved together. Her eyes were closed as she rocked on him, her hips undulating. He dropped back down so that he could look up at her; he trailed fingertips up her arms, over her collarbone, down the valley between her breasts, and over her soft stomach. Her breathy little moans made his heart stutter._ _

___She’s so beautiful_. _ _

__At length, his appreciation for her beauty took a backseat to the rising pressure in his groin, which was not being satisfied by her grinding circles. He gripped her hips and thrusted upwards to meet her rhythmically, until she leaned forward, pressing her chest to his as she cried out. The sound of her high, staccato moans filled the room, until she was crying out his name and clenching around him. When her spasms slowed, he rolled them over and, pulling her legs around him, thrusted into her until his spine quivered and he gasped with his own release. She kept her legs locked around his hips, stroking his back gently as he collapsed against her._ _

__“I love you, Christine.”_ _

__“Erik, let's never go home,” she'd whispered._ _

__.  
._ _

__“Again, please.”_ _

__Christine stamped her foot in frustration when he stopped playing, hands balled at her fists.  
“What was wrong with that, Erik?” she snapped. “And don’t you dare say I was sharp again!”_ _

__“As you wish, darling...I won’t say it. Again, please.”_ _

__When he stopped playing for the fourth time, she flung her music to the floor in fury.  
“Need I remind you that only one person in this room is a trained vocalist,” she fumed._ _

__“You may,” he said through clenched teeth. “Additionally, there’s only one person in this room with perfect pitch; they are not, in fact, one and the same.”_ _

__He was unsurprised when she spun around and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind her. It had been like this since they'd started working on Christine's audition repertoire to film her submission video. They were two months into the new semester, and the looming tension over the upcoming auditions weighed heavily down on them. They'd been increasingly short with each other for the last several days._ _

__The office door shook in its casing once she’d slammed out, and the silence that followed made him squirm uncomfortably. Gathering up the sheet music scattered across the floor, he wondered if they'd be sniping at each other now if they were still at the lake, living in Christine's lovely little fantasy world._ _


	14. Chapter 14

It had been late afternoon when the apartment door creaked open. He hadn’t seen her since she’d stormed out of his office that morning. Their paths usually crossed several times a day; she would come to his office when she knew he had breaks between classes to eat lunch, to study, to tell him about her morning. To have gone the entire morning and afternoon without seeing her definitely meant he was being avoided. When his last class for the day was done, he gathered up his bag and pulled on his wool coat. 

“Aren’t you heading to the performance lab?” Nadir had called from his open doorway as Erik waved goodbye. The performance lab on the bottom floor of the building was where Christine would be, was where he would normally go to wait for her on the days they drove in together.

“Nope,” he replied tonelessly, letting the door swing shut behind him. She could catch the bus. If she wanted to stew, he’d let her stew. 

When she’d entered the apartment several hours later, he was so distracted by his phone, he couldn’t quite remember who was supposed to be mad at whom.

“Hey, babe,” she’d called softly as she pulled off her furry boots. When he didn’t reply, her shoulders had slumped. “Erik, please don’t be mad at me, you know I hate when we fight.”

He was sitting on the sofa cross-legged, with his laptop balanced on his knee, staring intently at his cellphone. He barely moved when her arms came around him, cotton candy flavored lips pressing a kiss to his temple. 

“I'm sorry I was such a brat, Erik. I went through the pieces with Dr. Baker in the lab today and she said I was definitely pulling sharp.” Her hands splayed across his chest from where she stood, leaning over him behind the sofa, and he felt her press her nose to his hair, inhaling deeply and sighing. “I don't know why I'm so keyed up over this stupid audition...but I shouldn't have taken it out on you.”

When still said nothing she pulled away in annoyance. “Are you seriously going to give me the silent treatment? Now you're the one being childish.”

“What?” He glanced over his shoulder at her distractedly. He thought she may have been talking, but he had no idea about what.

“You're not even listening to me! You've got a lot of nerve getting pissy with--” she squinted at his phone. “Is...is that a penis?”

He nodded wordlessly as she tucked her chin over his shoulder. “Why the hell are you sitting here ignoring your beautiful fianceé and looking at a penis? That's not yours. Is someone sending you dick pics?!”

He turned and scowled at her. “How do you know it's not mine?” he demanded.

She snorted as she came around the sofa. “Erik, it's in my mouth four times a week. Trust me, I know what it looks like.” She moved the laptop and dropped between his crossed legs. “Do we need to have a very serious relationship conversation? Do you have something to confess, babe?”

He scowled again. “No, Christine. These started coming about a half hour ago, I don’t know who’s sending them. It's like a car wreck. Horrifying, but I can't look away.”

Christine reached out and swiped up the screen to the first photo, which had featured the caption miss me? The member in question was more aroused in each successive text. Christine was still swiping the screen when the phone buzzed again, and she started shrieking.

“Erik, I touched it!” She dissolved into laughter, her face pressed to his chest. When the phone buzzed again, she shrieked louder.

“If we get a money shot, I'm breaking this phone, Christine.”

She only laughed harder, until tears were streaming down her cheeks and she was holding her sides. “Oh my god, I’m going to pass out!” she wheezed. “Who do you think it could be? One of your students, maybe? How did they get your number?!”

It very well could be a student, he thought, since his classes were full of all and sundry thanks to...Meg.

_Don't worry, I didn’t give him my number...I gave him yours_

“I am going to _strangle_ her!” he fumed, pushing Christine from his lap and surging to his feet. “Look up this number, see if this is a DC exchange.”

It was. He forwarded three of the picture messages to Meg, cackling maliciously. “Let’s see how she likes it!” he cried triumphantly.

He didn’t have to wait long for her response.

_ok we need to have a conversation_

_because this is not the direction i expected our friendship to move in_

_also that’s not nearly impressive as christine makes it sound_

_im honestly underwhelmed_

He made a strangled sound of frustrated rage as the phone buzzed in his hand again. His eyes closed when he saw the picture on the screen, and let the phone drop form his hand. It bounced and slid across the carpet, coming to rest near Christine’s fuzzy sock.

“Today is cancelled,” he announced, “and I have a terrible headache. I’m going to go gouge out my eyes now.” 

She bent to retrieve the phone as he left the room. “It’s barely a trickle!” he heard her shieking again.

Erik could hear her animated chatter through the wall as he stepped out of the shower a short bit later. He moved into their bedroom, a towel wrapped around his narrow waist, and approached the slightly open door silently. 

“I'm still not sure, I haven't talked to anyone from there yet! That would be my dream, it's only a few hours drive from here, and a few hours from my family, so it'll be easy for everyone. We'll see...Santa Fe is going to be my safety, I don't think there's any way they won't take me, but Seattle is known for loving big voices...this all so stressful, I honestly don't care at this point where I end up, I just want this part to be over. What do you mean? He's already said he'll go wherever...of course we’ve talked about it, he understands that it’s just a roll of the dice at this point. It’s not like I get to pick.” 

A note of annoyance had crept into her voice, and he knew without needing to hear the other end of the conversation that he was the indirect reason why. Meg had posed the same set of questions to him over lunch just last week. 

“But where do _you_ want to go? I don’t understand why you guys are even at New Mexico and Arizona when you said you hate the heat.”

“It’s not that simple,” he’d sighed. “If I got offered a teaching job across the country, then--”

“But it’s not like you’d just be randomly gifted a job out of fucking nowhere,” she interrupted. “If you were offered a teaching job across the country, it’d be because you applied for it, right? I can’t see you applying for jobs someplace Christine would hate living.”

“It’s just for the summer,” he’d mumbled. “And I don’t hate the heat, I hate dry heat.”

“But what if it’s not, Erik?” Her brow was wrinkled in concern as she gestured with her fork. “What if the company she works for this summer offers her a contract? Do you actually think she’ll turn it down? I hate to be the one to break it to you, because you’re more than a little blind to her faults, but she won’t even think twice about signing a four year contract in the middle of the desert if they offer it her.”

His eyes felt itchy just at the thought. His skin dried out easily, was nigh impossible to moisturize with the mask. Hot, dry desert air would not be kind to him. They had spent a weekend at a five star resort in Arizona recently so that she could visit an opera company nearby, stopping in New Mexico on the way home to inspect the opera in Santa Fe. Christine had stretched out on a chaise on the balcony of their casita in her white bikini and soaked up as much sun as she was able, while he had stayed inside with the a/c on blast, and let the hot water run in the shower long enough to steam up the bathroom. He’d sat on the edge of the tub with a towel stuffed under the door, trying to keep his face from feeling like it was peeling off, until she had knocked on the door, wondering what the hell he was doing.

“What does that mean?” he demanded. “What do you mean I’m blind to her faults? What does that even mean?”

Meg rolled her eyes and speared a forkful of her salad. “It means,” she began carefully, “that you’ve got her on a pretty high golden pedestal, high enough that you can’t see her faults from down here on the ground.” She chewed for a moment before continuing. “You treat her like a queen, and Christine is extremely comfortable up there.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he scoffed. 

“Is it? Go ahead then. Name one thing you think is a fault in Christine.”

“She has terrible taste in men,” he ground out, glaring.

Meg laughed, flinging a balled up napkin at him. “Do you know what my mom said about the two of you? After seeing you together exactly one time?” She cocked an eyebrow at him before continuing in Annette Giry’s voice. “Young lady, don’t ever let me hear you say there’s not a lid for every pot. If those two were able to find each other, you can find someone too.”

He imagined himself to be a particularly dinged up, discolored pot, with a wobbly handle and scorched bottom, and the implication that Christine was anything less than a perfect piece of crockery rankled him. “What is that supposed to--”

“It means your girlfriend is a weirdo,” she cut in. “And it’s kind of adorable that you think she’s not, but I promise you she is. She has a bad temper, she throws diva tantrums, and likes getting her way.”

Erik sucked in a breath to rebuke her spurious accusations, but she barreled on.

“Now, none of that takes away from the fact that she’s also the nicest, kindest, sunniest person I know. And somehow she managed to find a guy who’s an even bigger weirdo, who’s arrogant enough that he thinks her tantrums are completely normal, who lives for giving her everything she wants, and is the most generous and considerate person I’ve ever met. And even though you’re probably always going to ride in the backseat when it comes to her career, she wants to make you as happy as you make her, which you do, Erik, so stop being chickenshit and tell her you don’t want to move to the desert.”

The silence that stretched between them as Meg calmly finished her salad was verging on uncomfortable when he exhaled sharply and glared at her. “Fine. Is that all then?”

“That’s all. I wouldn’t be a good friend if I didn’t point out when you’re being a fucking idiot.”

He hadn’t had the opportunity to discuss it with Christine since that day. _Or you’re still avoiding it, coward._

Nadir had come seeking him out later that same day, questioning his interest level in teaching piano ped the following year--none at all--when he'd given voice to the question that had been hovering at the back of his mind since that afternoon.

“Why did you send Christine to my office that first day?” he'd asked suddenly. “I was never an accompanist, there were half a dozen other names you could have given her. Why did you send her to me?”

Khan had pulled up short, not expecting the question. “Well, she needed someone that could step in without needing a lot of…” he trailed off and cleared his throat. “I thought you would suit each other,” he admitted. 

Bingo. “Why?” he demanded. “Why did you think that?”

“Well...you both have similar interests, and…” he turned from Erik’s glare. “She struck me as a bit of an odd young woman,” he sighed. “She was always so friendly, with a smile for everyone, but just a bit...odd.”

_Your girlfriend is a weirdo. And somehow she managed to find a guy who’s an even bigger weirdo._

Erik pursed his lips grimly. He hated when Meg was right.

“And she liked you, you know,” Nadir said suddenly. “Whenever you came through the office when she was working, she’d always watch you. When I gave her your name and told her who you were, she flushed very prettily.” He scowled at Erik. “And you never even said thank you, you ingrate.”

“Thank you, Nadir…” he murmured, his ears turning pink at the thought of Christine watching him before he knew her.

 

When she crept into the bedroom nearly a half hour later, he was curled up on his side facing the wall, the top of his head barely visible over the top of the quilt he lay under. He felt her crawl across the bed to him. 

“Erik, are you asleep?” she whispered. He nodded his head and and said nothing. She snorted as she sat up against the headboard, and he rolled over to face her, pressing his head against her hip. “Do you still have a headache, babe? Do you want me to get your imitrex?”

“No, it’s not that bad,” he murmured, sighing as she skated her nails down his scalp.

“Meg said she’s sorry she gave that Liam guy your number.”

“Oh, she is not, not even a little,” he huffed as Christine laughed, tugging lightly on his earlobe.

“She's definitely not. Her exact words were 'well thank God I didn't give him my number!’ She suggested sending him a dick pic back, but I told her you probably wouldn't go for that.”

He rested an arm across her as he chuckled, and she threaded her fingers with his.

“Erik, are you okay with moving to New Mexico?” she asked quietly, and he knew Meg couldn't leave well enough alone, that she knew him well enough to know that he hadn't brought it up.

“No,” he whispered against her leg. Her fingers curled into the hair at the back of his head as she sighed.

“Babe, why didn't you say something when we were there? I'm not a mind reader.”

“I don't want you to resent me, Christine,” he mumbled after several long moments.

“Erik, I wouldn’t!”

“You threw your music across the room and almost broke the glass in my door this morning because I pointed out you were pulling sharp.”

Her face screwed up in a lovely scowl. “I already apologized for that,” she gritted out.

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, angel.”

She sat back with a pout. “You’re still mad at me then?” she asked in a wavering voice. “What do you want me to say Erik, that I’m a spoiled diva?”

_Do you suppose you’re the first egotistical blowhard to come through these doors? That you’re the only person to have ever thrown a temper tantrum over a poor rehearsal? Because if that is in fact what you think, that is an impressive level of conceit, even for you_

He sat up with a sigh and pulled her to him, Nadir’s words echoing through his mind. A lid for every pot indeed. She allowed herself to be folded into his arms with a little sniffle, and his mouth twitched at her theatrics. Pulling a pillow behind him, he leaned back on the headboard and held her against his chest. 

“Angel, I was never mad at you,” he breathed into her hair, as she whimpered pitifully. “Christine, do you know what I did last summer? When the student group was struggling with that piece of mine for that alumni fundraiser concert?”

She shook her head against his chest and looked up at him with giant, tear-filled blue eyes.

“I argued with Nadir about it and knocked over a music stand into a big rack of chimes before I stormed out. And that was after I made one student cry and told another they should they save their parent's money and become a garbageman.”

She was quiet for a heartbeat before she began to giggle against him. “Oh, Erik you didn’t,” she laughed.

“Oh, I did indeed. I had to write an apology to Dr. Reyer and everything.”

“Did the chimes make a terrible racket?”

“Ear-splitting. It was quite satisfying.”

Her arms tightened around him as her shoulders shook in laughter. “Erik, we’re both terrible!” she tittered.

“We're assholes, Christine.”

She melted in a heap of wheezing giggles against him. “You’re _my_ asshole, babe.”

“And you’re my spoiled brat diva.”

“Reason three hundred and one why we’re not ready to even think about kids,” she murmured once her laughter eased.

“I suppose you’re right,” he sighed. “My point is, Christine...neither of us are terribly good about keeping our heads on straight when it comes to anything career related. If you pass on a contract because of me, you’ll resent me for it. You can say you won’t now, angel, but we both know that’s now how either of us react to things, and I don’t want to hold you back from anything. So that means you’ll resent me...or you’ll go without me.” He swallowed painfully at the thought. “I’d rather be somewhere that I hate by your side, Christine, than be here without you.”

She was quiet for a long moment before she leaned up to kiss him softly. “Come lie down in the living room and keep me company, babe. I’ll make dinner tonight.”

When he followed her into the kitchen, he noticed several things right away. She had her schoolwork spread across the table in a great fan of books and papers, so that she would resemble some put-upon scholar from the middle ages when she sat down in the middle of it. On the kitchen counter she had lined up the ingredients for their dinner; the two chicken breasts he’d had marinating in the refrigerator sat in a shallow roasting pan, the large delicata squash sat on the cutting board with a lemon. One of the heavy german knives he favored sat on the board with the squash, rather than one of the lighter, ceramic blades she preferred. He realized too late he'd walked right into her trap.

“Erik, do want me to get the quilt from the bed for you?” she asked solicitously. He snorted at her wide eyed, overly-innocent look.

“Do your homework, you little charlatan. I’ll make dinner, as that was clearly the plan.”

“I certainly don’t know what I’m being accused of,” she sniffed, seating herself amidst her dramatic display of books. “But I do have a paper to write, so that sounds like an excellent plan. Thanks for offering, babe.”

In between chopping vegetables, he texted Meg from his Liam-tainted phone.

_This isn't over. Sleep with one eye open, munchkin_

The phone buzzed moments later.

_prank war? oooo, bring it on asshole_

That night Christine tucked herself behind him, her breath warm on his back, her arm slipped beneath his. Her nails traced soft patterns across his chest, until they trailed down his arm to his hand. She lightly moved her fingers over the raised tendons and knobby knuckles as though she were mapping his skin, pausing to trace over the jagged scar on the inside of his wrist. Back and forth, back and forth, he felt her fingertip move across it as though she might be able to rub it out of existence.

He had told her about what he'd done while they were at the lake. Once he'd confessed to her his arrest and subsequent incarceration, the relief he’d felt at having been able to bare a sliver of himself without her turning away had made him continue sharing. Every night, under a black winter sky, they'd told each other their secrets, the things they'd never talked about with each other, with anyone.

He’d told her about performing, how there had been an agent and a manager already lined up for him when he finished his degree, as per the old man’s instructions. The acclaim that had come easily, how he was quickly booked up for performances across Europe, for weeks at a time; how every concert hall and conservatory wanted a performance from the brilliant masked pianist.

He told her how the panic attacks started somewhere in Germany, had progressively grown worse through with each successive stop through Croatia; how he thought he would suffocate on his anxiety through Rome and Venice, how by the time he was back home in Paris, he was a trembling wreck twenty four hours a day, unable to leave the apartment. He felt eyes on him constantly, the weight of the stranger’s stares crushing. 

The old man had been right in the end. ‘The world’ wasn’t any different than his own backyard. He was still a freak, and still terribly alone. He’d been meant to catch a train that would take him to his next performance at the end of that week, but the evening he was supposed to leave, had instead swallowed a bottle of pills and slit his wrists for good measure, settling into his bed with the intention of never waking up. He told her how the maid who had expected the apartment to be empty in the morning had found him, unconscious in a bed of blood, but somehow still clinging to life. When he’d been released from the hospital in Paris many weeks later, with no one else to turn to, no safe harbor, and no idea what to do with himself next, he’d called the number on the card he’d kept in his wallet all those years.

As soon as the sordid tale had crossed his lips, he’d wished he could snatch it back, stuff it back into the darkest corner of his heart. Tears had coursed down her cheeks had he'd spoken, but once he was done, he found he couldn't meet her eye.

_She didn't need to know. She loved you before, you didn't need to ruin things._

But then her arms had come around him, tightly under the water. “And that’s how you met me,” she had whispered against his lips. “And if I hadn’t left school when daddy got sick...I came back and you were there. We found each other. And if we didn’t go through all that terrible stuff we would have missed each other. But we were meant to find each other, Erik.”

The feel of her finger moving over the scar now raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Finally he could take no more, twisting his wrist to capture her hand, threading their fingers together. She pressed a kiss to the back of his shoulder, and finally was still.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thanks to anyone still reading this fic! This is a friendly PSA that the events in Wingman take place *after* Boys of Summer. If you've not read Boys of Summer, I strongly advise leaving Wingman here and returning after you've done so--it's fine, we'll wait! :D Our story here is getting close to moving in a certain direction, and a certain masked man's character development might not make sense without the history of the previous fic!
> 
> To the handful of people who regularly read and review--you have no idea how much I appreciate you!!

_would you mind coming to vet with me tomorrow? i don’t want to go alone_

She’d texted him in the early evening, as he sat glaring at the score he’d been working on, and his brow wrinkled as he read it. She knew he had class in the morning...it must be serious, he thought sadly. He could call in sick and cancel his two classes, it was his short day...a quick text to Khan and an email alert sent to his classes is all it would take.

 _Sure thing. What time_?

Meg came out of the her apartment as soon as he pulled up to curb outside, her arms full with the cat carrier. He rushed around to to open the car door, helping her carefully deposit the box on the backseat. He turned to look at her before he took the car out of park, noting her red, puffy eyes. “How’s he doing?” he asked her quietly. 

She shrugged miserably. “Throwing up and panting. I have to keep taking the water away from him because he drinks until he throws it all up.”

The vet’s office was just a few blocks away, and after letting her out at the door, he parked the car and hunched against the cold as he walked into the office. He joined Meg on a long, hard waiting room bench, ignoring the concerned look the receptionist gave his masked presence.  
“They already took him back,” she explained tearfully once he was seated next to her. 

He'd had a cat when he was young, or at least, his aunt had a cat. Duchess had been his closest companion when he was a small boy, following him out to the pine forest behind their house when he played, and sunning herself on the garden wall when he sat outside to do his schoolwork on nice days. At night, she would often find her way to his room, jumping up to his bed and settling onto his pillow, letting him bury his face into her plush white fur.

“Ms. Giry? The doctor will see you now.”

She’d gripped his arm, pulling him to stand and follow her behind the counter to the small room where Leonard meowed angrily at the vet who prodded him. He was a runty little cat, Erik thought, with tortoiseshell coloring and perpetually narrowed citron-green eyes. Erik listened with half an ear as the doctor droned about further treatment they could try, but if surgery was not an option they’d only be extending his time…

“Is there a surgical option?” Erik hadn’t planned on saying anything, was only there for emotional support, but something about the way the doctor had dismissed surgery out of hand had caught his attention.

“Erik, it’s really expensive,” Meg said quietly. “And he’s not a young cat. I can’t afford to--”

“But is there a surgical option?” he asked again pointedly, directing his question to the vet. The man’s eyes slid between the tearful young woman and the strange masked man. “One that would give him a significant improvement in life quality?”

“Well, yes, removal of the thyroid would completely--”

“Then do it. Now, get him ready for surgery. Do you take Amex?”

“Erik!” Meg had whirled around, and gripped his arm tightly. “I can’t ask you to--”

“You’re not asking me to do anything,” he said pulling from her grasp and turning towards the door. “I’m choosing to do it. And we’re not discussing it.”

He spun around and left the small room, reseating himself on the hard bench in the waiting room, after accosting the woman at the little window about what credit cards they took, sliding his Amex over the counter. His heart was thumping in this neck. Being here, listening to Meg’s soft sniffles had stirred up something dark inside of him, memories he’d rather not revisit. 

Erik could remember the day his cat died with startling clarity. It had been several weeks after his seventh birthday, and had come after a slow decline in health. That summer, she’d no longer been able to closely follow him on his adventures into the woods, choosing to lay in the walled garden for the majority of the days. Erik would would bring the little salmon-flavored treats she liked to her there, and would sit next to her, stroking her fur as he read aloud to her from the books she had previously acted out with him. They had been astronauts and pirates together, had been trapped on desert islands and had discovered unknown lands. She needed to be lifted to his bed at night, until the time came when she stopped coming to his room at all. 

His aunt had found him creeping through the dark library, long after she’d tucked him into bed. He’d explained he was just trying to bring Duchess to his room, but she kept hiding from him. Erik clearly remembered Paulina’s face twisting in sorrow at his indignant little protestation before she looked away. 

“Dearest, she’s looking for someplace to be alone, I think. Come, let’s go back to your room, it’s far past your bedtime.” She’d sat at his bedside and had quietly explained that Duchess was very old and sick, and it was her time. Two mornings later, Paulina had called him from the library to come sit next to her in the sunroom to say goodbye.

“Goodbye, Duchess,” he’d warbled in a tearful voice, burying his face into her soft white side a final time before she was lifted away by the driver, trading the little furry body for his aunt’s lap, who stroked his hair as he cried. For the rest of the day, he’d been hopelessly preoccupied thinking about what would would happen to his feline companion, to the point that his tutor was sent home for the day and his schoolwork set aside. 

“Will I need to dig to Duchess a grave?” he’d fretted, following his aunt around the solarium as she watered row after row of delicate plants. “Will I need to use a big shovel?” There had been a gravedigger character in a book he’d read, and he’d thought it a frightening sounding job; digging holes for the dead all day.

“No, dearest,” she’d told him patiently. “Duchess won’t have a grave, she’s being taken to a crematorium. You can look that up later. We’ll keep her ashes in a pretty little urn.”

“Oh.” He’d followed her up another aisle of plants. “Aunt Paulina, does my mama have a grave?” The question had come out before his little brain could process why he was asking. He didn’t know anything about his mother, had never been told she was dead, it was simply something he’d felt certain of.

“Yes, dearest, she does,” his aunt had answered him softly, turning to him with a sigh. “We can visit her grave sometime if you’d like. Erik, dear...why don’t you go pick out a place for us to put Duchess’ urn. After lunch I want you to practice before your piano lesson.”

Duchess came back to them two days later in a small sterling Tiffany urn, which sat on the mantle of the music room, until the house was packed up after his aunt’s death. He still had the cat’s ashes, packed away in a box somewhere, he thought with a pang, shifting on the hard waiting room bench. Losing his cat had been the first time loss had truly touched his young life, the first time _death_ had been an unwelcome intruder in the quiet house by the sea. Although it was more than a year later when death would come knocking again, on a clear August morning when he’d gone outside to play, the two events had always been linked intrinsically in his mind. 

He’d received several books on archeology for that birthday--an event which seemed to harken calamity, he would come to realize--just weeks earlier, after months of parroting dinosaur facts at every meal and in between his other school work. Every few days he would verbally review his running pros and cons list for becoming either an archeologist or a paleontologist, like the one in his favorite movie, to his aunt. His bookshelf was already lined with thick tomes on all things prehistoric, as well as a small collection of fossils he'd acquired. That morning he'd excitedly informed Paulina that he'd read that fossils from the cretaceous period had been found along the Chesapeake, and he was going to look for some in their creekbed. He’d loaded his small backpack with all the provisions he'd thought he'd need for the day before setting off for the pines. He glanced back once, waving as he trekked off across the expansive backyard; she was watching him from the window in the sunroom as she sipped her tea. 

The lights of the ambulance had cut through the scrub pine and he was already nervously making his way back to the treeline when he heard the old housekeeper, Thomasina, calling for him. By the time she’d hustled him back into the house, with orders to stay in his room until his grandfather arrived, the ambulance was already pulling away. A shattered china cup on the floor was the only evidence that anything had happened. A brain aneurysm, he’d learned eventually, gone before her body even hit the floor. If there had been a memorial, he was not brought to attend, was never given a chance to say goodbye to the woman who was the closest thing he'd ever had to a mother, the only person who had loved him. He’d been packed up and shipped off to boarding school less than two weeks later. Those first months at the school had been the most awful of his life, and he had missed his aunt’s calm, kind voice and the peaceful quiet of their home so much it had left him breathless with an emotion he’d been too young to be able to identify as grief.

Meg came out of the exam room, tears running freely down her face. She dropped to the bench and wrapped herself around his arm, crying into his wool coat.

“They said they’ll call when I can come see him, they’re getting him prepped right now.” She took a shuddering breath. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she hitched through her tears. 

He ran a hand over her glossy dark hair and looked down at her seriously. “You don’t need to.”

Ten minutes later, they were taking their regular seats at the cafe, Roger eyeing Meg’s blotchy face and puffy eyes with concern. They sat mutely after their drinks were brought over. “I had a cat, when I was little,” he said quietly, breaking the silence after several minutes. “We did everything together.”

“Really? What was his name?”

“Her, and it was Duchess.”

Meg smiled widely for the first time since he’d picked her up that morning. “That’s adorable. Not very manly, but I suppose you were never much of a bro, right?”

He chuckled. “She was fluffy white Himalayan, and she was my aunt’s cat, so it was actually incredibly fitting. She was my best friend when I was young,” he added wistfully. “Where did the name Leonard come from?”

She cocked her head suspiciously. “You don’t already know? She really didn’t tell you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She laughed then, a slightly hoarse sound, her throat still thick with emotion. “My ex-boyfriend gave him to me one year for Valentine’s Day. We’d been together for three years, and he gives me a box of chocolates and this tatty cat. Like, can you imagine? Not even a cute little kitten, he was already five or six, gave everyone the stinkeye, didn’t want to play, nothing. I called him my funny little valentine, and my boyfriend said that was his favorite Leonard Bernstein song.”

Erik's eyes narrowed to golden slits. Meg took a long gulp from her glass, avoiding his glare, before continuing. “So then douchebag breaks up with me a few days later. Now I’ve got this cranky cat, which I didn’t even ask for, and no boyfriend. I'd named the cat Leonard after this fucking song...aaaaand then I learn it's not even a Bernstein song.”

“It’s not,” he snapped. “It’s Rodgers and Hart. I feel like going back in the system and retroactively failing you for my class last semester.”

She doubled over laughing, and he was glad to see the smile back on her lovely face. “I know, right?!” she exclaimed. “I swore Christine to secrecy. I can’t even believe I’m telling you now!”

“Poor cat,” he muttered. “Are you sure he’s even a boy? I thought torties are all female, did you fuck that up too?”

“I swear I’m sure!” she laughed. “The vet said they’re rare, and he’s sterile, but he’s definitely a he.”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head in disgust. “You're an idiot.”

She shrugged. “Christine and I have the same problem,” she grinned. “We have _terrible_ taste in men.”

.  
.

He was standing in the front of his classroom when his phone buzzed on the desk. Ignoring it, he continued going through the subtle differences that separated swing from big band, jazz from jump blues, and the phone buzzed again. Gritting his teeth, Erik continued his lecture until the vibration against the wood was all he could hear, and two of the smirking girls in the front row exchanged knowing little giggles. Finally reaching the end of the point he was attempting to make, he gratefully flipped on the music. As the majority of the class listened attentively for the things he had just pointed out, he thumbed open the phone’s screen. Three missed calls, two from Christine, one from Daniel Barbezac. Erik frowned. Text messages from them both, and also several from Meg. He opened Christine’s first.

_Babe, I have bad news about this weekend_

_Call me when you can, I’m at home_

_love you_

His eyes narrowed. That weekend was the opening of Meg’s show at the cultural center. He moved on to Meg’s texts next.

_dont be mad at her ok?_

_i don’t care if you guys aren’t at the opening_

_i’ve got 8 shows a week for the next 2 weeks_

_you’ve got plenty of chances to see it_

_if you go to the opening you’ll have to see my mom again and no one wants that_

Erik realized the room was silent and sixty five sets of eyes rested on him expectantly as he gave a little jump of surprise. “Is everything all right, sir?” one of the coquettes in the front row asked with a smile. Erik glared and flipped the next set of music on before moving his finger over Daniel’s name.

_We have a problem_

.  
.

“What do you mean they won’t give us the contract?” he demanded a short while later, pacing around his office in a fury. “Who the fuck are they holding out for?!”

“The Palladium, sir.” Daniel’s voice was urgent and aggravated over the cell phone, but was without the touch of manic fury Erik knew his own had taken. “They want to turn the Palais’ main stage into a movie house.”

“Of all the stupid fucking nonsense…” Erik trailed off on a frustrated growl. Things had abruptly begun to move very quickly after the last theater district trustee meeting Daniel had attended. The board had unanimously voted to leave the Palais behind as the the main stage for the theater company, instead taking over the Majestic, leaving the ballet company to flounder. Daniel said the theater company’s goal was to be fully installed in the Majestic before the summer Shakespeare festival began. Erik and Daniel had planned on quickly snapping up the lease at the Palais in the theater company’s wake, but now the building’s leasing office was balking, hoping to hold out for someone willing to pay double the monthly rate, the younger man explained. The Palladium was the local independent movie house. Erik didn’t see how they could possibly afford the lease on the massive theater, but apparently their owner was just as determined as he and Daniel were to take over the contract.

“What should we do, sir?”

“Just give me a moment to think,” he snapped. Daniel would be a perfect business partner, Erik thought, not for the first time. He was young and hungry; green enough that he’d still defer to Erik’s opinion and experience, but smart enough to hold his own against Erik's whims. Daniel was calm and unflappable where he himself tended towards manic anxiety and capriciousness, Perhaps most importantly. Daniel would be the perfect face of their little industry. “I just...I need a moment to think. I need to go home, something’s up with my fianceé, and I...I need to think this through.”

“We safely have until the end of next month, I’d wager. The theater will have to terminate their lease at the Palais by the end of the fiscal year, and the company that owns the building...well, they’re a realty business, they won’t be making any backroom deals behind us. They just want the highest price they can get.”

Erik was agitated throughout his final two classes for the day, and went straight home afterwards. He’d spent the entirety of his break between classes on the phone with Daniel, and Christine had not texted him again. His chest had been tight with worry when he let himself into the apartment, and he sighed in relief when she was there. She seemed distressed, and was clenching her hands anxiously, but her eyes were clear and no signs of tears tracked her lovely face.

“I’m sorry angel, I was tied up all afternoon,” he breathed into her hair as she greeted him with a kiss once the door was closed behind him. “What’s wrong?”

“Erik, you’re going to be so mad at me,” she sighed, slipping her arms around him. “My aunt called today to ask if we were flying or driving up this weekend.”

Hir eyebrows drew together under the mask as she pulled him through the kitchen. “Flying up this weekend for…”

She grunted unhappily as she pulled an iced coffee out of the refrigerator for him. “My cousin’s baby’s christening,” she said at the same time he dropped his head back and groaned “that stupid baptism.”

“Yes, that,” she laughed as she pulled the mask from his face and stretched up to peck at his lips, pushing the coffee into his hands.

“You’re really pulling out all the stops here,” he chuckled, knowing the coffee from his favorite shop was purely a method of buttering him up. “I was sitting right next to you when she told us about this, Christine, of course I’m not mad. How did we both forget to put it in our calendars?”

“Because we don’t want to go,” she moaned, leading him to the sofa where she climbed into his lap. “You’d rather go to Meg’s show, and I’d rather do anything but go up for this.”

One of the secrets she had revealed to him at the lake had been her feelings of inadequacy in her Aunt Val’s eyes, particularly when measured against the woman’s own children. 

“She tried to treat me like a daughter, she did her best, you know?” she’d told him under the black sky that night, as he held her against his chest in the hot water. “But she wasn’t my mother, and I wasn’t her kid. She didn’t like the way my parents did anything. She thought I was too spoiled, she thought I needed to lose weight, she thought I should be a cheerleader and a mathlete, like Rachel.” 

Erik hadn’t realized anything was amiss between the two young women when he’d met Christine's extended family for the first time on Thanksgiving, had thought the tightness of Christine's smile was because of him; because of her family’s polite, strained reaction to meeting the masked man she had brought home. He didn’t know until she told him that night under the stars, and he realized he was merely an extension of the way she would have been treated regardless.

“Why didn’t you say something while we were there?!” he’d exclaimed, rubbing circles against her hips under the churning water.

“Erik, what was I supposed to say? ‘The cousin you’re going to meet today made my life hell when we were teenagers and it's a family scandal that you and I are living together, but just be cool’?” she asked with a laugh. “You were already hyperventilating over going, and you have zero cool, babe. Besides, you were too busy talking about tenure with my uncle. It was easier to just let her gloat over the baby news, like I was supposed to be jealous or something.”

She told him about how mortifying it had been to develop early in middle school, how the same jeers she heard at school would be echoed at her aunt’s house by her cousin, with whom she was of an age. “She always told Rachel not to make fun of me, but she did it in a way that made me feel like it was my fault.” 

Erik knew from photographs that Christine favored her mother; statuesque with golden curls, and a solid, hourglass figure. By contrast, when Erik had met Val’s family at Thanksgiving he’d noticed she and her children were all slightly built with light brown hair, and the kind of country club attitudes he knew so well, so different from Christine’s perpetually sunny disposition.  
Christine had stood out as a swan in a family of perfectly normal looking ducks, he’d thought. 

He’d been flummoxed to hear she’d ever been made fun of for her looks, when he thought she was a goddess. He loved that she was tall enough to rest her head against his clavicle, the way her wide hips spanned the width of his body when she straddled him, the way her full breasts filled his hands. “If you looked like the rest of them, we wouldn’t be able to slow dance,” he’d murmured against her temple that l night. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

“You have to say that,” she’d grumbled. “You love me.”

“That I do,” he’d agreed, bringing his hands up to her breasts. Her legs fell to either side of his knees, and when he’d moved his legs apart, she spread open like a flower. “I have since the first day you knocked on my door, and I thought you were a goddess, even then.”

One hand trailed down her body in the water, while the other stayed busy at her breast, caressing the peaks of her nipple and cupping the full weight. The hand that skimmed down between her breasts paused to caress the roundness of her hips, the softness of her stomach, moved gently over her thighs. He’d explored her warm folds, gently circling and rubbing that little pearl, making her jerk in pleasure against his hand, before curling into her clenching velvet center. He caressed her from the inside, and she’d moaned breathily against his neck. The fingers inside of her were coated in her slippery wetness, and he regretted the water that was keeping him from being able to spread it to the rest of her, from being able to taste her. After she’d climaxed against his hand, her head lolled back on his shoulder, and he’d pulled her tightly against him. “The most beautiful woman in the world,” he’d reaffirmed against her skin in the moonlight.

“Erik, we don’t have to go,” she insisted now, hopefully. “I know you really want to go to Meg’s opening, you even invited your friend to meet us there.”

Damn. He had invited Daniel, hadn’t he...he’d have to let the younger man know not to come, he thought. 

_Unless_...

He pushed aside thoughts of his plans for Meg and his young Baron. _Not now_. Christine had wrapped her arms around his chest and was looking up at him with hopeful eyes.

“Christine, we have to go,” he sighed. “You think your aunt doesn’t like you? She like me less, I promise. I’m not going to let you alienate the only family you have. Let me find us a flight, I’m not driving ten hours, and we are absolutely staying in a hotel. ” She made a pouty little noise and buried her face against his chest. Erik couldn’t help smiling at her theatrics. 

She was a ridiculous brat, but she was _his_ ridiculous brat.

He'd sat with his laptop balancing on the arm of the sofa and Christine across his lap, finding them a flight and hotel as she continued to complain and plead against going. “Too late, I'm done, quit your whining,” he told her once his phone chimed with the confirmations for both. “We can pretend we’re on vacation. A miserable, church vacation. And I can promise you that your cousin doesn’t own a single piece of jewelry that compares with your ring, so go and rub it in her face.” 

She’d laughed and held up her hand to admire the vintage Harry Winston. Once she’d left for her orchestra choir rehearsal, he’d let out a heavy sigh. He needed to think, needed to figure out what the hell they were going to do about this nonsense with the theater lease...and so he did what he always did when he needed to think. He paced. Back and forth, across the length of the living room, in front of the windows. It was an unsatisfyingly short length, he thought irritatedly. 

They really needed to move. This apartment had been perfect for him when he moved here; spacious enough to feel like a proper home with separate rooms, but not large enough for the yawning silence of empty spaces to swallow him up like a tidal wave. Since Christine had moved in, the year they started dating, the space felt positively miniscule, overflowing with color and clutter and her. He made a mental note to bring it up, the idea of moving to a bigger place, perhaps with a bit more permanence. Maybe they'd be happier in one of the brownstones over in the historic district…

He shook his head. He was distracting himself. _Think, you fool. What would the old man do_? he thought. _Eliminate the competition_ , his brain supplied immediately. Erik stopped pacing. He knew that was the answer, knew he'd only be wasting time if he thought about doing anything else.

Meg had jokingly asked him once if he'd ever used his money for nefarious ends. “No, but my grandfather did,” he'd answered automatically, watching as Meg's eyebrows shot up. Erik had been ten. There was another boy at school, one who seemed to live to torment his smaller, masked classmate. Erik had been the beneficiary of Jack's instruction at that point, but the other boy was simply bigger and stronger. After another fight, another instance of being left battered and bloodied by the larger boy, they had been marched to the headmaster, with the threat of a call to their families hung over them if they could not resolve their differences. The other boy had blustered excuses of not having started it, while Erik sat in sullen silence, wondering who would take the call if the headmaster made good on his threat.

He’d already had the realization that his grandfather was content to have his life run by proxies; lawyers and representatives and servants. There were people that handled his money and business, staff that ran his household, his sister had been enlisted to raise his grandson, being replaced with the school, all leaving him free to stare broodingly out to sea. From what Erik could tell, looking out at the churning gray water with cold, unblinking eyes was the old man’s chief pastime, substituted in the winter months for the fireplace in his study. Sitting sullenly in the headmaster’s office with a tissue clutched to his bloodied lip, he felt fairly confident that it would be James, the stone-faced butler who would field the call. Finding no resolution between the boys, the headmaster had dialed the phone. 

“I’m putting you both on speaker, and the five of us are going to have a meeting like gentlemen,” the headmaster had announced, and Erik settled back in his chair with a small roll of his eyes. The other boy’s father began to speak, blustering in the same manner as his son, speaking over the headmaster repeatedly. The silence from the other line raised the hair on the back of Erik’s small neck. He knew that silence, could practically feel the room getting colder from it.

“The boys need to make a commitment today to not start anymore fights with each other,” the headmaster had been saying, finally able to get a word in over the other boy’s father, when he was cut off again.

“My grandson does not start fights,” the voice cut in sharply, and the room fell silent. Erik wasn’t sure if he was more shocked that the man was actually on the phone, or impressed that he’d managed to cow the intimidating headmaster with just his icy voice. What he said was true; Erik did not start fights. He kept his head down and tried his best to be invisible. He’d been warned, in no uncertain terms that summer that he was not to start fights.

“I’ll not having you starting trouble like some common back alley drunk. You will not instigate altercations, do you understand?” Erik had nodded up solemnly, standing in front of the old man on the wide stone veranda above the study that overlooked the water. “But you will end them. You are to conduct yourself in a manner befitting your name, and that does not mean allowing every parvenu whelpling who accosts you to mop the floor with your blood, am I understood?

Erik certainly did not start fights. This was something the headmaster knew surely. “Yes, well...Mr. DeBecque, I'm sure you can appreciate the need here to--”

“What I would appreciate,” the old man interrupted again, with no trace of common, lowly palatalization, “is for my grandson to be able to receive his education in an environment slightly more structured than feeding time in the primate house at the zoo.”

The long beat of silence that followed was breathtaking, and Erik thought the headmaster looked like he was sorely regretting his brilliant idea of “conferencing like gentlemen.”  
The conversation brokered no resolution. The other boy insisted he did not start the most recent fight, and his father boisterously demanded that the boys be held equally accountable, or not at all. The cold man on the other line remained silent. “Very well then, you two be on your way,” the headmaster finally sighed in defeat, motioning to the boys. 

“On your way?” questioned the glacial voice on the speaker phone. “Am I to take it that’s your solution then? No resolution at all?”

The other boy’s father was affronted by this, and addressed the cold voice directly. “You certainly can’t expect my son to be punished like he’s the only one at fault here,” the man huffed. “I pay just as much money for my kid to go to school here as anyone, and that’s all they care about in the end.” 

The headmaster sharply disputed such a thing, but Erik was almost able to see the predatory glint in the old man’s amber eyes, a full state away. “How pedestrian of you,” he intoned lightly, icily, before the call was ended.

The boy did not return to school after the winter intersession. The whisper in the dorms was that his father had business troubles and lost everything; all Erik cared about was that he had one less tormentor. It wasn’t until his grandfather had died, until after Erik had inherited everything that he learned one of the lines on the many balance sheets outlining his inheritance was what had once been the company belonging to the other boy’s father. The old man had been gone two years at that point, and Erik never learned if he had bought out the company stock and driven the other man to financial ruin to prove a point about class distinction, to make his grandson’s time at school slightly more bearable, or to simply make sure he was never pulled away from his spot overlooking the sea to do something as banal as fulfill his role of legal guardian to his heir.

The old man would never let something as inconsequential as a rival business derail his plans, Erik knew. Offering a higher price for the lease was not a permanent enough solution. If he controlled the theater itself, his opera company, Christine's opera company, would have a permanent home. The ballet wouldn't be in danger, Meg wouldn’t be in danger of losing her job there. 

_You have a good head for business, a sharp mind...you will have the means to pursue any course_

Money couldn’t buy happiness; his entire life had been proof of that. His grandparents certainly hadn’t been happy people. No, it could not buy happiness, Erik thought, but it certainly was useful in removing obstacles. He pulled out his phone and called his broker.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thanks to anyone still reading this fic! This is a friendly PSA that the events in Wingman take place *after* Boys of Summer. If you've not read Boys of Summer, I strongly advise leaving Wingman here and returning after you've done so--it's fine, we'll wait! :D Our story here is getting close to moving in a certain direction, and a certain masked man's character development might not make sense without the history of the previous fic!
> 
> To the handful of people who regularly read and review--you have no idea how much I appreciate you!!

It had been a good night. Their flight had arrived in Providence right around dusk, and Erik felt the cold air bite at his skin as the left the airport, making each inhalation feel like the slice of a knife. The rental car he'd reserved was waiting for them, and Christine squealed against the cold as they entered the shelter of the parking garage.

“Erik, are you incapable of driving anything but a Mercedes?” she'd asked as he loaded their overnight bags into the trunk of the car, a slightly older model than his own. 

He rolled his eyes at the question. For all her talk, she was already fiddling with the seat warmers, he couldn’t help but notice.  
“Christine, I drive your car all the time...and I used to have a BMW, so whatever.”

She snickered as he pulled on his seatbelt. “Babe, you're such a snob,” she laughed, tugging his shoulder until he turned and kissed her. The kiss, which had started soft, deepened as Christine twisted to wrap a hand around his neck. 

She was, as ever, a minx. All during the flight she'd let her fingers creep up his thighs, determinedly seeking higher until Erik had trapped them with his own, giving her stern looks and strangled reprimands. 

“Babe, don't you want to join the mile high club?” she'd whispered conspiratorially.

“ _No_ , Christine!” 

She'd sat back with a huff, and he hadn't been able to keep from smiling at her familiar display. The flight attendants had come around only a few times, but their flight was nearly full. The stares of people boarding after them had been pointed, and he'd wrapped his hand around hers tightly and fixed his gaze out the window as they passed.

“Erik, It's not like I want you to fuck me in the bathroom sink. We're in first class, we have a blanket. These are double wide seats...I can take care of you, you can take care of me. Babe, they are inviting us to screw around, the flight attendant might actually be disappointed if we don't!”

He exhaled sharply. “You are forgetting several rather salient points,” he hissed, threading his fingers through hers, firmly pulling them away from his crotch again. “Firstly, _you_ sometimes take forever and this is only a three hour flight.” She gasped in offense, but he pushed on doggedly. 

“Secondly, you always like to claim you can 'catch it all’, to use your words, and yet you never, _ever_ do, and I get stuck having to wash the sheets; and thirdly, _neither_ of us is very good at having quiet orgasms, Christine. Do you really want to explain to your aunt that we were hauled off the plane by the air marshall for trying to join the mile high club?”

Her shoulders were shaking in laughter by the time he had finished talking. “Just because you're right about all of that doesn't mean we can't try, babe.” 

He’d turned and caught her lips softly. “You are incorrigible. The flight home is a red-eye, maybe it’ll be empty, okay? For now, hands to yourself, young lady.”

Now, kissing her in the dim parking garage, he felt his pulse thrumming in his neck. “Do you know what we get to do tonight?” he growled against her, brushing the nose of his mask against the delicate skin of her golden-brown throat.

She pulled back with sparkling eyes. “Hotel sex!” she squealed, bouncing lightly in her seat.

His deep chuckle reverberated against her skin. “Hotel sex,” he confirmed with a final brush of his lips. “So buckle up.”

.  
.

Erik felt as though he were floating in a sea of softness. His pillow was incredibly cushy, the coverlet plush, and the warm, naked body of the most beautiful woman in the world was pressed to his side. His long, white toes stretched to skim the cool bedding, as the lips of the angel next to him ghosted across his shoulder with a feather-soft touch.

“Shhhh, go back to sleep,” she whispered. “I'm going to start getting ready.”

When she leaned over him again, an indeterminate amount of time later, he inhaled the soft lavender scent of her freshly washed hair. “Erik, I'm going to run down to the car, I left my curling creme in the backseat, I think,” she'd murmured. “I'll see if I can bring us back breakfast, okay?”

He mumbled something unintelligible into his pillow as she kissed his shoulder again. They'd worn each other out the night before, and the fact that she was able to be bright-eyed this morning was possibly a super power, Erik thought.

They'd discovered their love of hotel sex the second year they'd been together, and since then, it had been something they giddily looked forward to every time they traveled. It wasn't that it was necessarily better than what they did at home, Christine would always point out, it was simply different. New surroundings, the possibility of being overheard by their neighbors, the feeling of transience...hotel sex was always louder, wilder, and more uninhibited than anything they did at home. 

At one point the previous night, Erik had flipped Christine, shrieking with laughter, from where she sat, impaled on top of him, as she had been demonstrating that she certainly did know how to bellydance--which apparently consisted of slowly undulating her hips against him and swaying her arms about, making him writhe in frustration beneath her--pushing her to her knees. He held her up by the elbows, keeping her body suspended midway over the bed as he drove into her roughly from behind. It was a particularly deep angle, and Christine had keened and gasped in pleasure, had nearly shaken apart as she climaxed and clenched around his thick length, and the gutteral noise that had issued from his throat once he'd reached his own climax he thought might have been heard out on the the street.

Despite the fact that he felt as though he could easily sleep for a week, he felt his member stir at the thought of everything they’d done. Christine had been gone for maybe fifteen minutes when he heard the slight pop of the keycard releasing the lock on the heavy door. He lifted his head from the pillow and pushed himself up on his forearms with a smile. “Babe, did you get breakfast? Think we have time for another go?”

The startled eyes that met his were not wide and blue, the scream that split the air was not the tinkle of a dozen tiny silver bells.

“ _M-monstruo! Monstruo_!”

The woman pressed a hand to her throat as she shrieked, flattening herself against the wall. Erik winced at the noise, and dropped his head back to his pillow, pulling the heavy coverlet up over his ears, muffling the sound of the woman’s distress at seeing the horror of his naked face. His heart thumped, more from the shock than anything else. He did his best to tune her out; she’d leave eventually, he reckoned, they always did. It’s not like this is the first time it’s happened.

It was almost strange how often he was able to forget lately, how much having Christine at his side insulated him from experiences like this anymore; how much this underscored his reasoning for not wanting to leave home. In their little bubble, he was almost normal; a college professor, someone to be respected, with friends and colleagues and a beautiful woman on his arm. Last night they’d gone to dinner, like a normal couple. He’d held Christine’s hand tightly in his as they left the restaurant, he had made love to his beautiful fianceé like a normal man...Christine had no idea what nights like that meant to him, how much he treasured them; locking the memory of her smile as they walked back to the hotel and how ordinary he'd felt away in his heart ...and just hours later he was back to what he’d always been. A monster.

He was five when he first learned what he was, the first time he understood he was a monster. The young woman had been a niece of one of the housekeepers, desperate for a job, brought on to help her aunt take care of the laundry. Erik had been trying to wrangle Duchess into the tiny paper hat he’d made for her and place her at the bow of the ship they were traveling in. The cat wanted nothing to do with her hat, and even less to do with the high seas effects he was enacting on their makeshift laundry basket vessel, when the young woman opened the door to the sitting room. 

“But Duchess, we’re explorers!” he’d been exclaiming to the cat, who took advantage of the suddenly open door and made her escape with a yowl. He’d made a grab for the cat at the doorway, and collided with the pretty young woman. He stared up at her, startled to to have a stranger in what was normally his private domain. 

The young woman’s mouth had dropped open in an expression of horror, and before Erik could react, she’d begun to scream. Arms shot out, shoving the little boy away, making him fall backwards as her shrill screams of terror echoed and bounced around the room and down the hall behind her. Her aunt appeared at her elbow, dragging her away, but all Erik could her was her repeated cry of “Monster! He’s a monster!” He’d begun to cry himself, frightened of her screams, of the the ugly noise that fractured the placidness of their normally quiet home, and of the words she said. The girl’s screams were cut off on a vicious slap, and then he heard Thomasina’s voice, sharp and angry, demanding to know what all of the racket was about. 

By the time his aunt had been fetched and had found him, he was huddled on the floor at the foot of his bed in his room, weeping in a quivering heap. “Dearest, don’t cry,” she’d plead with him, easily lifting his slight weight to the bed. “There’s nothing to cry over, you’re perfectly safe.”

“M-m-monster!” he wheezed. He knew what monsters were, there were monsters in his some of his books, and in the stories he was told. Trolls that lived under bridges, and frightening creatures who lived in shadows and stalked through the night. He’d never thought to include himself as one. 

He knew his face was different from other people’s. _Different_ was how Aunt Paulina had described it when he’d begun to ask questions about why he didn’t look like everyone else. Different hadn’t seemed bad when he was very young, as he had very little contact with anyone other than his aunt and the small household staff. Wearing the mask when they left the house, which wasn’t often, had been an adventure, like a game. But he knew him being different was what had frightened the young woman, had made her call him a monster.

“I don’t see any monsters here, dearest. Just a sweet little boy and a very naughty cat,” she’d said softly, sadly. He could hear Duchess fussing on the ground, demanding to be let up, as his aunt mopped his face with a tissue and drew a blanket over his small frame. “Now I want you to dry your eyes. After your supper tonight perhaps we’ll go to the boardwalk for an ice cream, doesn’t that sound nice?”

He loved going to the boardwalk, loved the colorful lights from the shops and the sharp tang of vinegar in the air from the stand that sold the french fries he would throw to the sea gulls. But when he was called to come to dinner, he stayed in bed, rolled into a tight little ball, claiming he didn’t feel well. 

When Duchess hopped onto his pillow, he tried to be angry with her. “This is all your fault,” he’d told her harshly. “If you hadn’t run away, I wouldn’t be a monster. We were s’pposed to be exploring.” When her rough, pink tongue brushed against his different cheek, his anger fled. He'd pressed himself to her fluffy white body and cried himself to sleep.

He still claimed sickness the next morning at breakfast, and he’d heard his aunt’s hitching voice on the telephone a short while later, as she paced around the large sitting room between their two bedrooms where he played, the scene of yesterday’s incident. She entered his room, wringing her hands nervously. “Dearest, your grandfather is coming, you must get up now. I want you to take a bath and put on your nice clothes.”

Despite the mountain of blankets he’d been bundled under, the little boy shivered. Aunt Paulina spoke to his grandfather every day on the telephone, he knew, and sometimes when she hung up her voice, normally so gentle, would have a chill of lofty coldness, as though the frostiness of the man on the phone had leached through the lines and seeped into her.

A short while later, his dark hair was neatly combed and his collared white shirt was tucked into pressed blue shorts; he had been gently instructed to play quietly in his room, and not get dirty. He’d heard the cold, clipped tones of his grandfather not long after.

“I hate this state, I feel dirty just crossing into it. Do you know what traffic is like on 1 this time of year? Where is he?” 

He’d looked up from where he sat on the floor with the cat, looking at a book about dragons, when he heard the sharp voice in the next room. His grandfather was a terrifying, unsmiling man, as tall as a tree, and the little boy tried to make himself as scarce as possible on the rare occasion he’d come to see them. He’d listened to the muffled voices for several minutes as he stroked the cat, when his aunt’s voice suddenly raised sharply. He didn’t think he’d ever heard Aunt Paulina raise her voice before, and it had made him jump. He’d listened to the raised, angry voices go back and forth for several minutes, clutching the edges of his book. 

“Absolutely not, I forbid it! How could you even suggest such a thing, Alain?”

“You are too soft, and you’re making him too soft.”

“He’s just a little boy, he’s too young to--”

“Paulina, you are doing him no favors by not preparing him for life beyond this house!"

“ _No_! I will allow no such thing! He will not be made to wear that vile thing in his own home. You may run your household however you please, Alain, but you shall respect my right to do the same, and kindly remember that I am the elder sibling. I shall write you out of my will entirely if you even try to force my hand here.”

He remembered creeping to his bureau where his tiny mask rested and slipping it over his _different_ face before anyone could fetch him. Duchess had long since fled from the raised voices, and was hiding either in the closet or under the bed and he wished he could join her.

The girl had been turned out immediately the previous day, by his furious aunt. He’d overheard the whole story a week later, when he’d been hiding in a cupboard in the kitchen, trying to avoid capture by aliens. The household staff had been lined up in the foyer, under the glinting chandelier, and given a vicious dressing down by the imposing man with the cold eyes, furious that he had been summoned from his home on account of his grandson being left distraught over actions of _the help_. 

Paulina had stood behind her brother with crossed arms and a stony expression, as her staff was warned, in no uncertain terms, if the incident ever repeated itself; if he ever received a similar call for a similar reason, the entire household would be turned out without a penny of severance, and no chance of finding employment with another family in Delmarva. The girl’s aunt, the laundress, had pleaded her apologies for even bringing her to the house, citing that her niece struggled with addiction and was trying to get her life on the right track. 

“Well, you know that was certainly the wrong thing to say,” Phyllis the cook recounted to her assistant, who hadn’t been at the house on the day in question. When the younger woman questioned her meaning, she went on with renewed zeal. “The boy’s mother, of course! In and out of rehab for years before she--”

“That’s quite enough!” Thomasina’s voice rang out as she entered the kitchen, silencing the gossiping cooks. “They’ve both been put out, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll both focus on your work. Serves them right, the girl frightening that poor child half to death. Let Miss catch either of you spreading tales like that or upsetting the boy and you’ll both be turned out on your ears, you heard what the Mister said!”

He’d stayed in his hiding spot in the low, empty cupboard until both cooks had ventured to the pantry, and he made his escape. He didn’t understand half of what they’d said, but instinctively knew not to repeat it.

The voice he heard now was Christine's, raised and ringing with fury. He heard her still shouting at the woman as the voices moved to the hallway, and then the door, slamming like a crack of thunder.

Her fingers were pulling back the coverlet and sinking into his hair. “Baby, are you okay?” she murmured in concern, pressing a small kiss to his forehead, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. Her arms wrapped protectively around his head. “Erik, are you alright? Please talk to me.”

“Christine, I'm fine,” he mumbled, twisting to break out of her death grip. “I'm...fine. Really.”

“I had the fucking Do Not Disturb on the door when I left!” she raged, refinding her fury now that she had ascertained he wasn't rocking in a ball. “I'm going down to the desk.”

“Christine,” he sighed. “Angel, just leave it.”

The slam of the door was his answer as she left again. Erik rolled to his back and stared at the ceiling. He really was fine, he decided. He didn't know this cleaning woman, would never have to see her again. It wasn't anything like when Meg had surprised him that day before the holidays. This didn't matter, he didn't need to let it matter. It was good to be reminded what he was every once in a while, Erik decided. 

He pulled himself from the bed and staggered to the shower. By the time Christine let herself back in the room, he was inspecting the suit in his garment bag, ensuring the fine, slate grey wool was not creased. 

“Well, our room is comped,” she announced. “And the manager almost fell over himself apologizing. They're sending up breakfast for us now.”

Erik rolled his eyes. “That was unnecessary.”

“Don't give me that look,” she groused, pushing him to sit on the edge of the unmade bed, burying her face in his hair. “Mmmmm, you smell so good,” she mumbled against him. He brought his arms around her, resting his still-unmasked cheek against her stomach. “Babe, we don't need to go today if you don't want to.”

He rolled his eyes against her. “Yes we do, Christine. Your aunt will have my head.”

“But I don't want to go if you feel--”

“I'm fine, Christine,” he said in annoyance, trying to pull back, but found she had locked her hands around his neck as she continued her quiet protestations.

“Christine, I don't want you looking at me like I'm a kicked dog,” he snapped, cutting her off and pulling her hands from him. Her eyes were sad when he pulled away, and he regretted his harsh tone immediately. He wrapped his arms around her tightly and re-buried his face against her, feeling like the monster he knew he was.

“Why don't you ever let me take care of you,” she mumbled. “You never let me take care of you, Erik.”

He shifted on the bed, pulling her down with him, enveloping her in his long arms. She pressed her cheek to his neck as he mumbled apologies into her hair. 

“I'm sorry baby, I don't mean to snap at you...you’re not hearing me, angel. I’m fine, I'm a big boy, Christine. This is my life, it always has been. I’m sorry if it’s ugly to you, but it’s the way it is.”

“You weren’t fine that day with Meg,” she whispered.

He sighed heavily, not particularly wanting to remember that day, and the panic attack that had overwhelmed him. “That was different,” he said in a low voice. “I know Meg, I care about Meg. Everything would have changed if…” he trailed off, unable to give voice to the horrible thought. 

_If Meg had treated me like the monster I am, everything would be different now_.

“I don’t know this woman, I don’t need to care about her,” he went on unsteadily. “I don’t want you looking at me like I’m this pathetic thing you need to pity and protect, Christine. I can’t bear that...this is all I need, just you, here in my arms.”

“It's not what _I_ need, though, Erik. I don't want you to push me away. I need to feel like you need me as much as I need you.”

He took a deep breath, not wanting to point out the absurdity of her words, that he needed her far more than she would ever need him. “I'll try to do better at remembering that, angel,” he exhaled. “I am fine though.” He stroked her hair gently before speaking again. “You took care of me when I was sick,” he reminded her. “That was nice.”

She exhaled sharply against him. “It doesn’t count when you’re too feeble to feed yourself,” she grumbled.

“What about my nightmares? You take excellent care of me then.”

“Yeah, when you're asleep. If you were awake, you would pretend you were fine...and I don’t look at you like that,” she mumbled against his skin. “I want to take care of you because I love you, Erik. _Love_ , not pity.”

“Alright,” he said quietly. “I'm sorry, Christine.”

Neither of them spoke for several long minutes, until he groaned, shifting her in his arms.

“I have to spend the day being glared at by your terrifying aunt, being polite to your cousins, whom I now hate, and going to fucking church. Scaring the maid will be the easy part of the day, I assure you.”

She laughed softly against him, and he tightened his arms. “Promise you’ll hold my hand and won’t leave me alone with Val for more than three minutes at a time, and you’ll be taking better care of me than anyone ever has, Christine.” 

“I promise, babe.”

.  
.

_your friend came to my show!_

_the one who looks like bambi_

_did you tell him about it?_

_he brought me flowers and didn’t whip his dick out so already an improvement!_

_you’re right, you might be better judge of character than me_

_my mom is already planning the wedding_

_it’s gonna break her heart when i tell her he’s just an intern, lol_

The texts from Meg had come sometime overnight, and couldn’t keep a self-satisfied grin off his face. When he’d called Daniel to let him know he and Christine were unexpectedly being called out of town for the weekend, the younger man had seemed genuinely disappointed.

“I wish we didn’t have to go, I really wanted to be there to see the opening...you remember my friend Marguerite? She’s dancing one of the leads,” he’d said in a measured, casual voice. “You know, if you’ve never been to the Cultural Center, you really ought to keep an eye on their calendar. They self-fund all of their productions, so they’re smaller than what we do downtown, obviously, but really excellent quality. I’ll let you know when Christine and I are planning on seeing the performance, if you’re able to join us.”

_Trap: set_ , he’d thought as he’d hung up with Daniel that day. Clearly the bait was taken, he smirked, reading Meg’s messages. Just an intern, indeed!

He was glaring at his reflection in the full length mirror on the closet door less than an hour later. He’d never especially liked looking at himself in the mirror, there was certainly nothing remotely pleasant there to see, but he valued being neat and well-groomed; went out of his way to be well dressed. The suit he’d packed for this trip was one he’d bought in Milan almost five years earlier, and had only worn once or twice. It was well made; perfectly tailored to his long, lean frame, and was not black, which had been Christine’s only instruction...and was completely wrong for this occasion, he now saw. For any occasion involving Christine’s family, more than likely. He pursed his lips. The suit was slim-cut and fitted, far more fitted than appropriate for church; tight through the hips, narrow down his long legs. His hair was a touch too long, his shiny black shoes a touch too pointy in the toe. _If you were worried about them not liking you, this will seal the deal_...

“Christine?” he called nervously. “We have a problem...I look like eurotrash.” Hopefully her dress would be demure enough to pacify her aunt and take attention from him, he thought. He turned when she stepped out of the bathroom, and his hopes were immediately dashed. “Christine,” he whispered helplessly.

“What are you talking about, babe? You look hot, I love this suit! Why don’t you ever wear this when we go out?”

“Ch-Chris--w-wha--but...church!”

She was not wearing a demure dress. The one-piece jumpsuit was a deep cobalt blue, splashed with brightly colored flowers in fiery crimson and yellow. The long, unbroken line of fabric showed off the wide set of her hips and defined waist, and the strappy, metallic heels she wore on New Year’s Eve glinted on her feet. Her tan from their weekend in Arizona still warmed her skin, leaving a splash of adorable freckles across her nose and golden brown cleavage framed by the outfit’s deep-v neckline. She rolled her eyes. “Erik, do we need to go through this every time we leave the house?”

“No,” he said vehemently. “You can _not_ go to church in that. Look at us! The building is going to catch on fire the second we walk in the door!”

“Erik, I feel pretty in this,” she said through clenched teeth. “I bought this because you said you like me in this color!”

“Christine, angel... you look beautiful, but please, _please_ put on something else,” he pleaded. “Your aunt will kill one of us, and it’ll probably be me. Is that what you want? Do you want me to die?”

“Into what, Erik? One of the other sixteen outfits you seem to think I packed for an overnight trip? Did you bring another suit? I don’t think that kind of bulge is appropriate for a baptism.”

He sank to the bed with a whimper and buried his face in his hands. He wouldn’t admit it to her, but the incident with the maid had rattled his confidence over the day, and his stomach was tied into every knot in the webelo handbook at the thought of being stared at by a hundred eyes in the church, by her family and their guests afterwards. The smell of the breakfast tray made bile rise in his throat, and now he was going to be rendered limb from limb by Christine's aunt over their less than appropriate church clothes. He heard her sigh and cross the room to him, felt her nails skirt across the back of his neck.

“Erik, do _you_ think I look nice?” He nodded his head mutely. She would be beautiful in a potato sack. “Then that’s all I care about, stupid. I want to look pretty for _you_. Why should I worry about my aunt and cousin? They’re going to criticize me no matter what. You’re the one who’s always telling me I need to care less about what people say.”

He exhaled sharply and looked up at her at last. “That’s when they’re talking about me, Christine.”

“Same difference, babe. C’mon, now we really are going to be late.”

“Your aunt is going to hate this,” he reminded her again, eyeing her outfit again.

Christine smiled evilly. “Oh, I know she will. Too bright, shows off my figure, which is supposed to draped in a muumuu, I guess...do _you_ like it?”

“Angel, you could be dressed in rags and would still be the most beautiful woman in the room,” he sighed, placing his large hands over her hips. “I do love this color on you. You can put that on my headstone next week when you’re burying me. ‘He loved me in blue, but I showed too much cleavage in church. RIP.’ Wear this to the funeral and Val might kill me twice.”

When they walked into the church an hour later, only slightly late, she had conceded to wear the lace-trimmed camisole she’d had on at dinner the previous night under the jumpsuit, helping to downplay her ample cleavage. Her billow of golden curls was pulled up from her face to show off the earrings that matched her ring, and she clutched his hand tightly, as promised. They slid into a pew near the back of the church, and Erik tried to be invisible. He stood when Christine did, knelt when she knelt, tried his best to pay attention, but mostly let his eyes roam over the boring 1970’s architecture and the congregants. 

“That baby looks like a monkey,” he’d whispered to her at one point, and she’d barely been able to suppress her giggles, to the annoyance of the elderly matron sitting in front of them. Erik settled back with a satisfied smirk as her shoulders shook in silent laughter, happy he’d been able to make her smile, and supremely confident in the moment that _their_ child would be a perfect little cherub with Christine’s round, rosy cheeks; not at all like the small simian in Christine’s cousin Rachel’s arms. The irony of him commenting on the way a child looked was not lost on him, and he gave the massive crucifix above the alter a little shrug in repentance. 

He stayed in the pew as she went up to take communion, and was thus able to spot Aunt Val see Christine for the first time as the former returned to her seat; saw her double take and narrowed eyes, watched her scan the pews until her eyes landed on him with pursed lips. He sighed heavily. _It’s going to be a long fucking day_.

As people began to leave the church, a receiving line formed to greet the families of the several babies who had been baptised during the mass, and Erik could see the tension tightening Christine’s shoulders with every step. 

“Angel, listen to me,” he hissed over her shoulder. “You look beautiful. You are successful and independent; you’re going to have a brilliant singing career, we’re going to get married this year. There’s nothing she can say to you that matters in the slightest.”

She squeezed his hand tightly. “I know. I hate the way she can make me feel like I’m still an awkward fifteen year old.” Erik thought about the way he still felt like a wayward teen in front of Nadir, and sympathized immediately.  
“She’s going to go on and on about their stupid country club and John’s huge bonus, and the dumb expensive crib they bought for the baby’s nursery,” she continued, pasting a tight smile on her face.

Erik snorted. “Christine, literally none of that is impressive and not even for the reasons you think. I’ll explain in the car...okay, natural smile in three, two, one…” 

He gripped her shoulder and turned her towards him, lowering his face until he could claim her lips in a searing,completely inappropriate-for-church kiss. She whimpered slightly as he pulled away, and when he looked down on her, a dazzling smile split her face and her eyes sparkled.  
“Perfect,” he whispered, turning her back just before they came up on her waiting family.


	17. Chapter 17

_Hello, sir! Just wanted to thank you for letting me know about the dance performance at the cultural center--it was spectacular!_

_Please let me know when you and Ms Daae are going to attend, I wouldn’t mind seeing it again!_

_Let’s tb this week, re: Palais_

Erik had a feeling that the slow grin that spread on his face as he read the text messages from Daniel was reminiscent of the Grinch, which Christine insisted on watching in her pajamas every year the week of Christmas, but he found that he didn’t quite care. Daniel Barbezac would never dream of sending Meg half a dozen unsolicited photos of his growing erection, Erik would stake his considerable fortune on it. 

_How does he look like Bambi_? His face screwed up at the thought and he shook his head. Meg was an idiot. He leaned over Christine and pulled up the shade on the window. The sky was an endless sea of inky darkness. Christine lay snuggled into his side, her legs tucked sideways across her own seat. They had survived the day together, Erik thought.

.  
.

Once they’d reached Christine’s cousin Rachel, clutching her be-gowned baby at the top of the receiving line, the young woman had blinked in surprise before turning a tight, supercilious smile onto his beloved, and all of his anxiety and apprehension about this day washed away in wave of protectiveness. Erik realized he was much better equipped to deal with the situation than Christine could ever hope to be, and that he was not going sit idly by and allow anyone to make her feel like she was less than the goddess she was.

“Chrissy! We didn’t think you’d made it! Mom saved a seat for you next to her and Daddy and you never showed up!”

“That’s my fault,” Erik cut in with his silkiest voice, and her eyes widened in surprise. “We took our time checking out of our hotel room,” he purred, “but we got here right when things were starting. That was certainly an _interesting_ procession.” 

As the new parents walked down the aisle with their infants at the start of the mass, one of the babies spit up a trail all the way down the nave, prompting Erik to whisper to Christine that if church was like The Exorcist all the time, he might go with her more--earning his first glare from the matron in front of them for the mass; and another family’s other child threw a floor-kicking tantrum at not being able to sit with her parents, and her tiny screams of fury had reverberated around the echoing room, causing Erik to snort in amusement, and Christine to elbow him sharply.

Rachel blushed at the insinuation that any part of the morning had been less than perfect as Erik spread a hand over Christine’s hip. “Darling we shouldn’t hold up the line,” he breezed, pulling her away. As soon as they were back in the rental car, on their way to Aunt Val’s house for the small reception, she’d turned to him with wide eyes.

“I forgot you could do that, that you’re actually one of them. I know we're both assholes, but you're like, a professional, babe!”

“My dear, I am certainly not _one_ of _them_ ,” he scoffed. “Do you know why we never, ever talk about money Christine? Because it’s gauche. That’s not something you _do_. If Rachel wants to bloviate about her husband's bonus, she's just showing her middle class pedigree. The bed I slept in as a child wasn’t some stupid, fancy mail-order thing that cost thousands of dollars; it was a rickety looking four poster that had come from the old family house in France, because that’s what old money values--history, legacy. My grandparents _certainly_ didn’t belong to any clubs, because those were for new money trash. Social-climbing, desperate to marry into an old family, new money trash.”

Her mouth fell open in horror and he lifted his hands from the wheel defensively. “Hey, _I_ don’t think that. I live in a two bedroom apartment and order pizza three times a week. But my people certainly would. And that’s what I was raised around, so if your cousin wants to get catty and play class war with you, I’m just saying...she’s already lost.”

Christine’s laughter was still bubbling out of her as he eased the car to the curb outside her aunt’s house, after instructing her on the proper Aunt Paulina-approved way to be an old money snob--smile, be gracious, and look vaguely amused at everything.

“Okay, remember...I think you look beautiful. They’re not important. If we get separated and you need help, make that face I love.” She scrunched her nose up and he bent to kiss it. “That’s the one. Do NOT leave me stranded alone with your aunt. I’ve had more than twenty years practice dealing with bullies, Christine, this is my wheelhouse. Your cousin and her husband are novices...you’re an actress, you can do this. We are sophisticated, erudite, talented artists...and what are they?”

“Social-climbing, new money trash,” she parroted promptly.

“Perfect, you’re ready.” He kissed her again and watched as she stepped out of the car carefully, straightening her posture.  
_You’ve created a monster, maybe_.

.  
.

Erik sipped from his wine glass as Christie’s uncle engaged him in conversation about his current position at the school. His gaze didn’t waver from where it rested on Christine, across the room, surrounded by several of her cousin’s friends. She kept her shoulders back and her nose high, as he’d instructed. Erik thought that perhaps if he were gazing up at them right now, his grandfather might almost be amused by the lovely young woman who inexplicably loved his grandson, trying very hard to fit into the role of a rich man’s wife.

Throughout the day, Christine had kept her game face on and had performed beautifully.  
When her aunt had made a comment about her outfit as soon as they’d arrived, Christine had smiled beatifically and said how much Erik loved her in blue. Every snipe her cousin made she’d been able to parry admirably, he thought, and every time she caught his eye, she gave him a dazzling, conspiratorial smile.

He’d already been cornered by her aunt once already, as he tried to melt into the wall near the fireplace while Christine had been surrounded by several young women as they oohed and aahed over her ring.

“You bought her earrings to match. Very extravagant.” Christine’s Aunt Val had appeared at his elbow. Her tone was deceptively mild, but Erik took note of her arched brow. “I'm sure that must have set you back a pretty penny.”

“Yes, well...the ring didn't cost me anything, so the earrings were well within the budget,” he answered lightly. “Besides, that was her Christmas present.”

“Oh? Then what was the engagement?”

“That was my Christmas present.” His voice has grown a bit tighter, and he felt a massive pang of sympathy for his sweet angel, growing up with this kind of questioning and scrutiny.

Val's laughter at his answer eased his tension slightly. _You're overreacting, stop being ridiculous_.

“Erik, I noticed you didn’t take communion.” 

_Dammit_. He instantly retensed.

“That’s because I’m not Catholic,” he replied evenly, casting his eyes around for a sign of Christine’s blonde curls. It was a good thing, too, because Christine had pronounced him too ill-mannered to join her every week as she sang mass at her church job, when he’d volunteered to do so after the baptism. 

“This was fun!” he’d exclaimed with a wicked smile. The church lady in front of them had been unable to hide her disdain for the masked man who had kept up a running commentary for more than half the ceremony as she strode past them.

“These kids are going to lose their fucking minds,” he’d whispered to Christine during the mass, as the babies were prepared to have holy water poured on their tiny foreheads. “Do you remember that stupid documentary you made me watch about the people living in the city with the monkey? That’s the monkey Rachel’s baby looks like.”

“ _Shhhh_!” Her cheeks had been pink trying to hold in her laughter. “Erik, that wasn’t a documentary, that was Friends. Will you stop being terrible?! No f-bombs in church!”

“It was a very nice ceremony,” he’d said to Aunt Val.

“Hmph. We were very happy to hear that you’d finally popped the question when she called on Christmas. She went to catholic school, you know. Are you planning on being baptized soon? I’m sure she’s hoping to be married in the church.”

“I was thinking maybe a beach wedding, actually.” He breathed a sigh of relief as Christine materialized at his side, winding her arm through his securely, keeping her promise and giving his hand a firm squeeze.

“St. Eustace’s has such lovely stained glass windows,” Val went on, as if Christine hadn’t spoken. “Rachel’s pictures turned out so lovely with them in the background, dear.”

“St. Eustace? Is that where you’re getting married?” Hearing her name had caught Rachel’s attention as she passed by with a plate of crudites.

Christine smiled through gritted teeth. “I hadn’t planned on it,” she ground out.

The young woman sniffed. “Chrissy, the carrots are on a table in the kitchen, I’m sure you’re looking for them.”

Christine’s smile had begun to resemble a grimace at her cousin’s words.

“Angel, do you know where else has stunning windows?” he cut in abruptly. “The Palazzo Ducale in Venice. All that byzantine stone work, with the quatrefoils above the balustrade...you could come across the canal in a gondola. We could go to La Fenice afterwards. Or better yet, why not just get married at the opera? We could have a private ceremony at the Garnier in Paris if you’d like, wouldn’t that be lovely?”

She turned to twinkle up at him. “Actually,” she said with a smile, “I was thinking of getting married at our lake house.”

Val’s eyes had narrowed in disapproval at the suggestion, as Rachel’s jaw tightened. Val called Christine every two weeks or so, had done so ever since Christine returned to school after her father's death, as Erik learned after she'd moved in. She’d called to check in one drizzly Sunday afternoon in late September, when he and Christine had been snuggling on the sofa under her peacock throw. Christine mentioned that she and Erik had a long weekend from school coming up the following week, and would be going to the lake house he’d purchased for her for the first time. Val had asked her a ton of questions and Erik had thought nothing of it at the time, not knowing there was bad blood between the cousins. Now that he knew, Erik almost regretted Christine not getting the chance to see her cousin’s face when she’d learned of Christine’s new vacation home.

It had rained nearly every day they were there, that long weekend, giving them plenty of opportunity to break in the bed, the plush sheepskin hearthrug, the shower, and the kitchen counter. When there were pockets of blessed dryness, they’d walked hand in hand on the wet beach. Christine had proclaimed she liked him in flannel shirts and jeans almost as much as in his perfectly tailored Italian suits, as they’d sat on the deck under the large overhang, wrapped in a blanket, watching the rain on the lake. There had been one afternoon of perfect autumn sunlight, and they’d driven to the other side of the lake to walk along the forested edge. The shadow of the tall pines made Christine uneasy, but the sharp smell of sap and black earth reminded him of the happy years of his early childhood, and he’d sucked in lungfuls of the crisp, clean air as deeply as he was able. Once they’d broken the treeline to the lake’s edge, Erik was almost startled by the lack of salty sea air, so transported he’d been. 

“We haven’t even set a date yet,” Christine went on. “So there’s plenty of time to decide what we want to do." 

Val had harrumphed and for the moment, the conversation ended.

At one point in the day, Christine had been given the dubious honor of holding the baby, and even though he had decided he hated Christine’s cousin, even if he did think the baby looked like a small, pink monkey, his heart had seized and his breath caught as she held the little white bundle close. She’d looked radiant, and he’d again imagined her in their bed, golden curls fanned around her as she held her perfect little miniature to her breast. She’d looked up at him then with a mischievous smile, no doubt assuming he’d be waiting to make a mean-spirited joke, but when she locked her eyes with his, she’d frozen for an instant. Her eyes and smile softened, and she cocked her head slightly. 

Once the baby had been passed off to another set of arms, she’d rejoined him, threading her fingers through his. “Wipe that dopey smile off your face this instant. I swear, you’re like a woman,” she’d chided, squeezing his hand.

“I didn’t even say anything!” he’d sputtered indignantly, and when she looked up at him, her eyes had a hint of something that was almost sadness. 

“You didn’t have to, babe.”

Surrounded by her cousin and a group of her cousin’s friends as Erik chatted with her uncle, her nose scrunched, almost imperceptibly, but enough for him to catch. His angel was outnumbered. He’d quickly disentangled himself from the conversation with her uncle as Rachel’s husband and another man had joined the cluster across the room.

“There you are, darling,” she said lightly as he wrapped a protective arm around her hip. The eyebrows on two of the young woman shot up, while a third let her mouth fall open. The sudden appearance of a tall masked man in a tight fitting suit was apparently not what they were expecting, he thought sardonically.

“Evvie and Lisa, this is my fiancé, Erik...darling, these are some of Rachel’s friends from high school,” she said meaningfully. Her bullies, he interpreted. Any goodwill he might have forced in an effort to be polite withered.

“Erik, Rachel and John were just telling me that we ought to consider buying a house this year, because renting is...what was was it, Rach? For suckers?”

Rachel had the good grace to blush as Christine repeated back her words, and her husband quickly cut in that they had “just been telling Christine that a good real estate investment was worth its weight in gold”.

“I couldn't agree more,” he agreed in a voice just a shade less frosty than the old man's had been. “That's why we keep a healthy real estate portfolio...but only an idiot would be buying a house in the suburbs in this market.”

The talk over the holidays between Christine's uncle and his son--Rachel's aloof older brother--that Erik had quietly been privy to was that Christine's aunt and uncle were concerned that their daughter & son-in-law had grossly overpaid for the home they had just purchased. Rachel's face flushed at his words, and Erik knew he'd hit his mark.

“We're quite happy in the city right now,” he went on, as Christine's arm tightened around his. “I think we’re safe to be suckers for a bit longer.”

“Well, we still think paying rent is like throwing money out the window,” the man, John was his name, Erik remembered, said defensively. “After all, owning a home is the American Dream.”

Erik cocked his head and smiled coldly. “Well...how pedestrian of you.”

.  
.

“Dear, I hope once you start dress shopping you’ll look at some options a little more flattering to your figure. Everyone’s eye will be on you when you come down the aisle, after all. It’s your big day, you’ll want to look your absolute best.”

Erik paused outside the door, aghast at what he was hearing. Christine had left his side to use the restroom, and had never returned. Without her near, the weight of the stares being leveled on him was growing unbearable, particularly after the ill-fated real estate conversation. One cluster of Rachel’s in-laws had edged close enough that he’d been able to hear their whispers. 

_What’s with the mask? Probably something medical, right? It might be pretty bad_... 

His throat closed for a moment, and it was very hard to breathe. One, two steps backwards, and then he was melting into the darkness of the hallway, escaping the room full of staring eyes. He wished he could be normal for her, that he could be a man she could be proud to have at her side; wished that the rest of their lives together wouldn’t be characterized by people whispering about her every time her back was turned. He’d desperately needed her hand in his in that moment, and had gone seeking her when he heard her aunt’s voice coming from the long kitchen.

“What does that even mean?” Christine’s laughter was strained and his hands clenched into fists at the sound.

“Christine, dear, this outfit today...it makes you look very hippy...and thank heavens you have a camisole on, otherwise you'd be falling out of that top! You really need to be more mindful of what works on your shape, dear.”

“Aunty, I have big hips. I can’t take a bone saw to them.”

“That may be so, but you certainly don’t need to make them the center of attention. These shoes...you shouldn't wear such a high heel, you’re tall enough on your own. I think a nice empire waist for your wedding dress, something with a higher neckline will suit you beautifully. We can go to the bridal salon where Rachel bought her dress and see what they can special order in your size.”

There were several beats of silence before Christine spoke. “Aunty, the only set of eyes I’ll care about on my wedding day will be my husband’s,” she began in a careful voice. Erik could detect the hint of a waver there, and it broke his heart. His own insecurities were stuffed into the backseat of his mind, as all he could think about was comforting her. “He thought I looked beautiful today, and that’s all that matters to me. I’m sure you’ve noticed he’s a very tall man, I can wear as high of a heel as I’d like.”

Val began to speak, but Christine cut her off. “It was nice seeing everyone today, thank you for inviting us. The ceremony was lovely. I should find Erik, we’ll need to leave for the airport soon.”

 _Now_ , he thought. _We need to leave for the airport now_. “Angel, there you are,” he said in his most honeyed voice, turning the corner into the room. “I’m sorry to have to cut our visit short, but we really need to get going, we don’t want to miss our flight.” Christine was biting her lip as he entered the kitchen and turned at his voice with relief, nodding in agreement.

Erik found he was unable to keep the frosty chill from his voice as goodbyes were made, was unable to keep his posture from being stiff and formal. He knew the tight smile on his lips didn’t reach his hard eyes, and he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Once they were outside, Christine sagged in relief. She was quiet as they got into the car, quiet as they drove away. Once they’d pulled off her aunt and uncle’s street and wound their way through the labyrinth of large houses in the twisting development, they reached the outlet for the main road. They had several hours before they needed to be at the airport for their flight, he realized. He let the car idle at the intersection and turned to her. Christine was staring off into the distance, looking sad and deflated.

“Christine, look at me,” he said softly, and she slowly turned her head. He leaned over the console and cradled the back of her head with one massive hand, drawing her face to his. When the slow, tender kiss broke off, he smoothed a calloused thumb down her cheek. “The most beautiful woman in the world,” he whispered. Her smile was tremulous, and she leaned in again to kiss the false nose of his mask gently.

“Let’s just go home, babe.”

“We actually have a few hours before we need to leave for the airport. Show me where you went to school.”

When they pulled up outside of the high school, closed up tight for the weekend, Erik got out of the car. “Wanna break in?” he asked hopefully. “Deface the principal’s office?”

Her quiet laughter echoed off the side of the brick walls as she grasped his hand. “No, Erik. I definitely do not want to do that.”

“You’re no fun,” he grumbled, leading her to a small stone bench under a bare maple tree, pulling her across his lap as he sat. “This is where I would wait for you to get out of stupid show choir practice. You’d tell me about what the asshole director said that day, and then we’d make out under this tree.”

This time when her laughter bounced off the frozen grey sidewalk, it was closer to its normal, sparkling tone. “That sounds perfect, babe.” She sunk her fingers through his hair as their lips met.

He thought again about how her little game of make believe was just as much for herself as it was for him. “Okay, where to next?” For the next forty five minutes they drove around the small suburb Christine had grown up in. They visited all of the places she had suffered indignities at the hands of her cousin and her cousin’s friends, and Erik rewrote each history, and her soft laughter seemed more relaxed with each fantasy he concocted. When they walked away from the dance studio, where she’d studied as a child, Christine groaned at the sight of a small boutique.

“This is where I had to get my prom dress,” she sighed. “When I was seventeen, all these really crazy colored dresses were the big trend, like a pack of markers exploded over a few yards of micro-pleats. I loved them. And my aunt wouldn’t let me get one, made me come here to this old lady boutique. “Dear, you won’t find anything to flatter your figure at the mall,” she mimicked. “She wouldn’t even let me wear heels! Just because I would have been taller than my date, I had to wear these stupid little sparkly flats. I like wearing heels!”

“What about your dad?” he asked in confusion. Christine’s father hadn’t passed away until she was in her second year of undergrad, he knew, and he wasn’t sure why her aunt had been able to exhort so much influence over her formative years.

Her grip on his hand tightened. “He didn’t know what to do,” she said sadly. “Daddy...he was never really the same after my mom died. Depressed. He would have been happy to treat me like I was seven years old for the rest of my life. My aunt stepped in and I think he was just grateful to have a woman around to mother me. I know I’m making her sound like some wicked witch, but it wasn’t always like that, not really. I don’t know what I would have done without her when my dad died. I think that’s why Raoul and Phil have always meant so much to me, too. They were _my_ friends, my cousin didn’t have anything to do with them.”

Erik was quiet for a moment as he processed this information. Christine’s childhood hadn’t been nearly traumatic as his own, but their worlds had been upended at approximately the same age. They’d each had their bullies, and had simply learned to survive in different ways. He hated the popinjay and always would, he suspected, but the boy had played an integral role in Christine’s happiness as a child, and he could never begrudge her that.

“Well,” he said finally, “you didn’t have to worry about your old lady prom dress, because we didn’t go to prom.”

“We didn’t?” she gasped with a bright smile, eager to play along.

“Nope. You’re forgetting your boyfriend was a troublemaker from juvvie. I smoked. I drank. I got in fights. We absolutely ditched prom. We stole liquor from you uncle’s cabinet and broke into the theater by the school and screwed around all night.”

Her delighted laugh was finally back to normal, and Erik smiled in satisfaction at the dulcet sound of it. The road they were walking down suddenly ended in a blockade, and Erik could see throngs of people milling around ahead. “What’s this?”

“CSA pickup. It’s every Sunday...we should really look into joining one when we get home, actually. We can go up this street to cut around it babe, it looks pretty crowded.”

“No, let’s go through.” He tugged her hand forward, and Christine’s forehead creased in confusion at her crowd-averse fiancé actively seeking one out. “There’re food trucks up there, they might have tacos! A man cannot survive on carrot sticks, Christine.”

When she demurred about wanting anything to eat, he sighed and rolled his eyes. She’d studiously avoided the pastries at her aunt’s house, had passed on the hot hors d'oeuvres, and had nibbled on nothing but carrots and raw broccoli, conscious of her aunt’s and cousin’s eyes. He knew she was secretly starving. “Then go find us a bench, because I’m getting something.”

The suburbanites who populated the CSA pickup were engrossed in their produce, and he was able to navigate his way through the crowd without incident. His eyes continually swept the area, and he saw more than one person staring, but they quickly averted their eyes, and no one said anything within his earshot. _Best you can hope for_. When he found where Christine had sat, perched on a stone bench between two massive pots that would house lush greenery and flowers once spring returned, he handed her a foil paper-wrapped square and a stack of napkins. “No tacos,” he said sadly. “But they had turkey burgers. I got yours with cheese and extra pickles. We’re sharing the fries.”

“Erik, I said I didn’t want anything,” she gritted out.

He shrugged and waved at a little boy in a stroller who was pointing at him. The child immediately hid their face and he grinned. “Then don’t eat it. More for me.”  
He was three bites into his own burger when she unwrapped hers with a grumble, and he turned his head to hide his smirk.

“We should have an engagement party,” he said suddenly, ignoring the way Christine looked at him like he'd sprouted an extra head. “I'm serious! Think about it...we have a party at home, and if your aunt and cousin don't show up, you have a built-in reason not to come running back here for the next party or holiday. We can be offended forever.”

“And if they do show up?” she asked, dipping her fry into the little paper ketchup cup. “Did you seriously only get one fry, Erik? Was there a potato shortage or something?” she asked around her mouthful.

“If they do show up, I get the pleasure of watching your aunt's head explode when she sees you in the dress you wore for New Year's Eve.” His smile was wicked as she dissolved into laughter.

“Oh my God, she'd die! Wait, Erik, what’s that?”

“ _This_ is my milkshake. I seem to recall someone claiming they didn’t want anything.”

“And I seem to recall someone having an early class he teaches tomorrow. It would be a shame if he wakes up with a stiff neck from sleeping on the sofa.”

His deep, sonorous laugh made the child in the stroller whip their head around again to gape at the masked man, as Erik handed over the milkshake. “You drive a hard bargain, brat.”

She twinkled up him. “Thanks, babe,” she giggled before he bent to kiss her again.  
.  
.

The flight had been nearly empty, as he’d suspected it would be at that time of night. Christine had already been dozing while they waited to board, and immediately rested her head against his shoulder once they were buckled into their seats on the plane. Erik was wide awake and tense, as he normally was when flying. 

He paid for TSA pre-screening to expedite the time he spent being gawked at and questioned in the security line; the detailed questionnaire and fingerprinting were a small price to pay, but it didn’t always preclude him from being hustled into a security room to remove his mask for an agent. It was never a pleasant experience, for him or the unlucky TSA employee. When full body scanners were introduced in most airports, Erik had been overjoyed; as the rest of the country fretted about their privacy, he could look forward to his privacy being retained in most circumstances. Fortunately, he hadn’t been asked to remove the mask on either flight that weekend. He tried to settle into his seat and relax as the plane taxied, attempting not to jostle Christine. There had been a voice message from his broker, and he read the transcription once devices were re-permitted. 

_Good afternoon, Mr. DeBecque. I just wanted to keep you in the loop...Our representative shall be communicating with the realty office for the property at 14471 Union Street first thing tomorrow morning. Title and deed transfers will need your signature, naturally, and we can discuss how you’d like that handled when we speak. I’ll be in touch as soon as I have some information for you_.

He felt the familiar surge of that electric excitement, of _possibility_ run through him. Things were coming together. Daniel’s messages about having gone to Meg’s opening were read next, and Erik let the slow Grinchy grin spread across his twisted face. It wasn’t often that things went this right, he thought, and he was determined to enjoy the foreign sensation.

Once they had been in the air for some time, he leaned forward and examined their immediate surroundings. The two first class seats across the aisle from them were both empty, as were the two seats in front of them. The businessman across the aisle in the row ahead of them had bluetooth earbuds in, and his head reclined, indicating sleep. Erik grinned. Christine had already pulled a blanket around herself, and had tried to find a comfortable spot against his side to sleep in, although she was still grumbling about not knowing where to put her legs. Eventually, she had tucked them up beside her, invading his seat to rest against him. 

_Perfect_.

He was able to slip a hand into the waistband of the leggings she’d changed into easily in this position, and her mouth opened in a perfect little ‘o’ of surprise as his long middle finger stroked its way into her warm folds. He steadily circled around her little pearl with his thumb, teasing his fingertip at her entrance until she’d slickened for him, her breath thready. Christine’s nails dug into his forearm when he slipped a curved digit inside her as his thumb stayed busy. She clapped her hand over her mouth as a strangled little gasp made its way past her lips as he stroked her with increasing pressure, and he gave her a playfully stern look.

Her hips canted lightly against his hand as she pressed her arm into her mouth, stifling her breathy moans and his cock twitched in excitement. He had a vision of her sucking on his swollen member from under the protective cover of her blanket, and felt himself swell. He wasn’t sure if it was the stress of the day or the illicit nature of their surroundings, but he had just barely slipped a second finger inside of her when she climaxed, clenching and throbbing against his hand. The pulsing in his groin matched the throbbing beat of her warm center, as he bent his head to replace her arm with his mouth, swallowing her moan as she came, feeling her nails curl into his skin.

Her head lolled back and she struggled to control her panting breaths. He withdrew his hand from her, sucking her essence from his fingers as her head dropped against him. He kissed her temple lightly, before pressing the heel of his hand against his erection for a moment, giving it a bit of needed friction. He slowly counted to twenty, just in case anyone had been watching them, before he turned with a sly smile to ask if she was ready to reciprocate. He was met with her soft, snuffling snores. Erik dropped his own head back, closing his eyes, and groaned. She’d played him.

 _Fucking typical_. 

She’d remained asleep for the duration of the short flight, and staggered groggily as they debarked. 

“For God’s sake, Christine, can you wake up a little?” he growled at her. “These TSA agents are going to think I’ve drugged and kidnapped you, and that we’re on our way to my hidden underground lair or something!”

He’d practically carried her up to the apartment, and once inside, he dropped her unceremoniously on their bed, grumbling about there being a significant lack of reciprocity in their evening. When he joined her in bed shortly after, his hair still damp from the shower, she’d groped blindly for him. She’d apparently decided she didn’t have the energy to change into her pajamas, and he’d stepped over the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed that she’d kicked off.

“Babe?” she whispered drowsily. “Babe, I forgot to take care of you! I think I fell asleep. We have to fly back to Providence now,” she mumbled. 

“Go back to sleep, you little double-crosser,” he groused. “I went to church, I dealt with your family, I had my milkshake stolen, and I had to jerk myself off. If that’s not the definition of ‘you owe me’, I don’t know what is.”

“Tomorrow, babe. I promise. We’ll fly back tomorrow,” she muttered, her head dropping against his chest as sleep once again claimed her.

Despite his words, he leaned into her hair, inhaling deeply. Erik yawned and settled into his pillow with a small smile. Her words from earlier crossed his mind, about wanting him to need her as much as she needed him...perhaps they were more evenly matched in that arena than he’d ever thought. He mused that he didn’t actually mind everything he’d done for her today, simply because they’d survived it together. _Love, not pity_. He desperately wanted to believe her. He pressed a kiss to her hair before closing his eyes and whispered goodnight, holding his angel close.


	18. Chapter 18

Two days after they’d returned from their trip to New England, he’d woken sometime before dawn to her soft whimpers. She was laying across his chest, her arms tight around him, which was decidedly not the way they normally slept. He felt pinioned beneath her, but paused before he shifted her back to her side of the bed. She was having a nightmare, he realized as she whimpered again. She was trembling, her hands squeezing at his sides. The blanket had slipped when she’d rolled onto him, and gooseflesh prickled her bare arms. All thoughts of dislodging her gone, he pulled the errant edge of the duvet up around them, tucking it under her chin and around his shoulders, so that she was surrounded in warmth, and wrapped his arms around her.

“Shhhh, you’re fine, baby,” he murmured against her temple, stroking her hair. She stilled at the sound of his voice, and he sunk his fingers through her curls until he cradled her head. “It’s alright, Christine.”

This time her whimper had the shape of his name, and her sharp nails bit into his sides as she clutched at him. “I’m right here Christine.” He kept his voice low and even, rubbing slow circles against her back. She turned her face to nuzzle his chest, and he felt her shoulders, so tense only a moment before, relax. She spread like a puddle against him, and it didn't matter how uncomfortable he was, he thought, as long as she felt safe.

When his eyes fluttered open again, a few hours later, her hand was stroking gently against his hip. She was still flush against him, his arms still cradled around her.

“Morning, babe.”

Her voice was soft, and he bent his unmasked face into her curls. Her hair tickled at his open nasal cavity and over his eyelids as he mumbled good morning.

“Erik, do you know what today is?” Her voice was still barely more than a whisper against his skin.

“Yes,” he responded in a voice just as quiet, cupping a broad hand across the small of her back under the thick duvet. The thin material of her pajama tank was kitten soft from repeated washings, and his fingers moved lightly over the fabric several times before they slipped under the hem to find her even softer skin.

She hummed happily. “I knew you would. I told Molly last night at rehearsal what today was, and she said men don’t remember those kinds of things.” She grinned and tilted her head back to peer up at him, and he wondered if the day would ever come when he wasn’t struck dumb by her loveliness. He hoped not. “I told her she didn’t know _my_ man.”

His deep chuckle reverberated between their bodies. Her long legs tangled with his, and he felt her toes grazing at his bony ankle. “On this day in history,” he began, gently stroking her hair as she nuzzled her nose against his sternum, “the most beautiful woman in world knocked on my broom closet door, and completely changed my life.”

This time it was her soft laughter that blew against his chest. “On this day in history, the sweetest man in the world said he would be my accompanist, and completely changed my life.”

Her hands came up to cup his withered cheeks as he lowered his face to hers, and their lips met in a soft, slow glide. Her full lower lip fit between his two thinner ones as though it had been designed for that sole purpose, he thought. He would never grow tire of kissing her, he knew; would never tire of holding her in his arms, of seeing that dazzling smile directed at him. The kiss broke off and she gave a soft little sigh. “I love you, Christine,” he whispered before pressing his lips to her smooth forehead.

He felt her lips press to the long column of his throat; once, twice, her nose ghosting across his skin before her lips landed for a final time just below his adam’s apple. “I love you so much, Erik.”

They were quiet for a time, warm and content together, and Erik thought, not for the first time, that he wished he had the power to freeze them into a moment forever. “This should be our anniversary,” he said suddenly, and she groaned with a soft laugh. 

“Haven’t we discussed this before? We can’t have the day we met be our anniversary, that's dumb.”

He snorted, shifting her slightly so he was able to stretch his back. “I don’t see why not. It would be a sight more romantic than celebrating the first time we had sex. What does that say about us as a couple?”

She giggled and slapped his arm lightly. “That is not what we celebrate! That was a magical night in my memory, thank you very much. It was our first _big_ date. It was the first time we went _out_ as a couple. After that night, nothing was the same.”

“Nothing was the same,” he agreed, wrapping his hand around the back of her thigh. “...because we had sex.”

“ _Erik_!”

Despite his teasing, that night _had_ been magical. He’d taken her to a five star restaurant, and then to the symphony--the same one she now sang with, in fact--and afterwards had driven her home. She’d been breathtaking in her formal dress, a midnight blue confection that made her eyes sparkle like gems plucked from the most ancient depths of the sea. When they'd left the symphony hall, he’d been riding a confident high on the heady scent of her perfume and the way she’d wrapped her arm around his, threading their fingers together. When he’d leaned in to kiss her goodnight, his tentative confidence had been snuffed like a candle when Jamie and Cecile--her roommates at the time--had interrupted the moment with their cackling laughter. Christine had asked to go back to his apartment instead.

She’d laughed sheepishly once they’d arrived and she stood in the sterile grey living room. The apartment was neat and orderly and devoid of life, he remembered, bearing no resemblance to the colorful chaos currently present in every room. “I guess I didn’t think this through,” she’d gestured down at her dress with a smile. “Erik, could I borrow something to put on? So we can sit comfortably?”

Throughout that night he’d vacillated between excitement and desire that made his pulse throb behind his eyes and in his groin, and nervousness and anxiety that stilled his breath and made his lungs feel as though they were in a vice. When she’d asked to borrow clothes, implying she’d be shedding her own, here in _his_ apartment; that she’d be naked, or at least partially so, in one of the rooms he stood in every day, made every emotion he’d felt all evening collide in hurricane of desire and nerves that swept through him, rooting him to the spot, unable to speak. 

Before gross motor skills had returned to him, she’d glided towards him with a small smile. His heart had lodged itself into his throat, beating in triple time, as she’d leaned up on her toes, still teetering in her heels, to brush her soft lips against his. “Go find me something to wear,” she’d whispered, “so we can get _comfortable_.”

“Erik, this is fine!” she’d called from the bathroom a few minutes later. He’d lurched into his bedroom after she’d kissed him, stuffing her arms with several clean tshirts he’d pulled from his dresser, so that she’d be able to find the one that fit her best, with the promise to find her a pair of pajama bottoms. “I don’t need pants. You’re so tall it’s like a little dress!”

She’d come out of the bathroom in a Ramones t-shirt that barely skimmed her thighs, and he’d swallowed convulsively. _Little_ dress indeed. He poured them each a glass of wine, and tried to make contact with the confidence he’d felt earlier in the evening. Christine was already curled up on the sofa in the dark living room waiting for him, barefooted, his t-shirt rucked up around her thighs. He’d queued up some soft opera music on his laptop, syncing it to the speakers around the room, and with a bravado he hadn’t known he possessed, flicked off the kitchen light. She’d looked up when the light went out, her lips curing into a smile as he crossed the dark room, holding out a wine glass to her. 

“The symphony was amazing, I didn’t even think I liked Mahler!” she’d chirped brightly, laying the hand that was not holding her glass across his bony wrist. “I want to hear more of his work now!”

Despite the tightening in his stomach at her casual touch, Erik launched into an enthusiastic explanation of how there was a great debate on the proper order of the scherzo and the andante sections in Mahler’s sixth symphony, in an excited voice. Christine’s eyes widened slightly as he babbled, and he trailed off after several minutes, blushing as he realized he was off on a tangent, his stomach neatly folding itself into an origami crane. She drained the last of her wine, leaning over him to set her glass on the low table in front of the sofa. _Very smooth, you idiot_ , he’d thought, feeling heat steal up his neck. _Way to turn on the charm_. Christine’s eyes were still bright, though; and her smile soft. 

“Your ears are turning pink”, she’d whispered, reaching out to tug his earlobe, making his clumsy heart trip over itself. “I love how smart and passionate you are about this stuff...I had so much fun tonight, Erik,” she murmured into the space between them; a space that grew smaller as she’d leaned into him. 

The wine was sweet on her lips as their mouths slotted together, and she’d sighed against him as the kiss deepened. He had felt a little pinprick of electricity every time her tongue had slid against his as they kissed slowly, mouths meeting and parting in the dark room. Her hand had been pressed against his chest, and she’d slowly brought it up until it had come up to the side of his head. He remembered he’d been startled by the direction her hand was taking; how he’d gripped her wrist, assuming she was reaching for the mask, and the way his heart had twisted at the thought of her seeing, of her screaming, of this beautiful dream coming to an end. Her fingers had curled over his, gently brushing his knobby knuckles. She’d traced a raised tendon with her nail, making him shiver, and when he’d released her, her hand continued its original journey to bury itself in his dark hair. 

He hadn’t been sure how any of it was real, how _she_ was real, but he hadn’t wanted to think on it too hard, because he was holding her in his arms, kissing her in the moonlight as Delibes’ _Duo des Fleurs_ filtered softly around them, and for the first time in his life, with Christine, he’d felt like a normal man. 

“I’m just saying,” he went on, rubbing her thigh as he spoke. “I don’t see why this can’t be our anniversary. Do you realize we owe everything to the Russtache? If Enid hadn’t gone to that party with him, she wouldn’t have been in that accident. She never would have mangled her wrist, and you wouldn’t have had a meltdown in the office, stomping your feet and throwing papers all over the place over needing an accompanist.” 

His hand slipped up her thigh, under the hem of her little sleep shorts, the blue ones with the fuzzy pink pom-pom trim that he loved, until he gripped a handful of her luscious, peaches and cream posterior. She gasped and swatted at his shoulder, but her smile was wide and her eyes shone. He gave her a little squeeze before continuing. “If you hadn’t needed an accompanist, Nadir wouldn't have given you my name, and you never would have knocked on my door that day. We would never have have met, we certainly never would have wound up in bed together a few months later, and it’s all because of the Russtache. Yet for some reason, you think celebrating the sex day is the more romantic option, completely ignoring the fucked up alignment of stars that made Enid say yes to him in the first place.”

She was wheezing in laughter against him, and he knew his smile was extremely self-satisfied. “That is a gross exaggeration of my _alleged_ meltdown! And Enid’s incredibly poor decision making and eventual misfortune feels like a terrible thing to celebrate, Erik.” 

Christine’s original accompanist, the unfortunate Enid, was a sweet girl who’d had a run of bad luck during Christine’s junior year, culminating in her decision to go to a party with a handlebar-mustachioed grad student named Russ, whom Erik had referred to as ‘the Russtache’ privately, breaking her wrist in a car accident on the way home, after abandoning her philandering date at said party, leaving Christine with no accompanist mid semester.

She continued to laugh against him, shaking her head. “I can’t believe that’s what you think of our anniversary. ‘We had sex, the end.’ I guess I should just be glad you remember it all, you big jerk.” She wiggled her bottom as she spoke, and he squeezed her again.

He wasn’t sure how she thought he’d be able to forget. Every detail of that night--the way she looked, the way she smelled, how dazzling her smile had been-- was seared into his memory, and stored away in his heart. Their kisses in the dark had grown more heated, there on the sofa, until Christine had pressed herself against him, her fingers nimbly working at the buttons on his shirt. She’d pushed the white material apart, revealing skin nearly as pale, skating her nails down his ribs, and he’d groaned, pressing his lips to hers again. She’d been leaning over him at that point, straddling one of his thighs, when she pulled her lips away from his and sat up suddenly. 

He remembered the way his heart had stopped, certain that she had just come to her senses, remembered that she was a beautiful angel allowing a creature from nightmares to paw at her, that she was about to jump away in disgust...but instead, she’d reached around to her back for a moment, and after a series of quick movements that he’d assumed was some sort of witchcraft, her lacy black bra was being pulled through the arm hole of his shirt and discarded somewhere on the floor, and then she was leaning over him again, guiding his hands, which had been clenched into fists, to touch her.

There had been a tremor in his fingers, he remembered. He’d been certain his wildly thumping heart was visibly moving through the skin of his chest, that the origami crane, which had transformed into a great beast taking up residence in his abdomen, was beating its wings so furiously that it was certain to burst free at any moment. He’d been with women before then, he’d had sex before...but he’d never held any woman this way, had never been _intimate_ like this. He’d never been in love with anyone the way he’d fancied himself in love with Christine. All he’d been versed in, and poorly at that, was animal heat and lust, and he’d been certain he would disappoint her.

Christine had been pulling his hands to her...waist? Breasts? She’d let go of his wrists midway, letting him decide, and he’d found himself instead gently cradling her perfect face. Her full, pink lips had parted in surprise, blue eyes widening slightly as he gently brushed his thumbs across the apples of her cheeks and around the curve of her jaw. Her skin was satiny soft, so unlike his own, the color of a blushing peach. Christine had grown very still as he gently caressed her, tracing the curve of her unturned nose with the pad of his calloused index finger, and her lips raised in a soft smile. It was that plump lower lip he explored next, moving his thumb around its fullness. Following the curve of her mouth, he traced her cupid’s bow lightly. 

The tip of her pink tongue had pressed into the pad of his thumb, and his hand had frozen its movement. Slowly, so slowly, her mouth covered his thumb, sinking her teeth into the pad. The bite was instantly soothed by her soft tongue, plump lips closing over his knuckle. He felt her laving at his skin as she sucked gently on his thumb, and he’d suddenly felt as though the temperature in the room had increased exponentially, the majority of the heat emanating from his groin.

If this was all they did tonight, or any night, he could die happy, he’d thought. This woman, who had consumed his every thought, had invaded every corner of his conscious mind and starred in every one of his dreams since they day she'd knocked on his office door, whom he was certain he loved more than he’d previously thought it possible to love another person, had allowed him to hold her in his arms, to kiss and caress her...it was more than he’d hoped for, certainly more than he deserved, and he knew he could die happy in that moment. She’d apparently had other ideas, for after she released his thumb from her mouth, she guided his hands to the swell of her breasts.

“Erik, you can touch me,” she murmured before kissing his mouth gently, settling his palms against her. “I want you to touch me.”

The next morning she’d been in his arms. She’d told him she didn’t care about the mask, that it didn’t matter to her, and he’d so wanted to believe her, this beautiful girl, this angel he loved.

The ceiling he stared up at now, nearly three years later, was the same one he’d stared up at that morning, when he’d woken before her, paralyzed with anxious self loathing. The angel was still in his arms, he thought; the beautiful girl had said she’d be his wife, and he was certain he could still die happy. _This_ day though...on the anniversary of _this_ day he’d been a stammering, blushing fool; too shocked to turn her away from his door, too entranced by her loveliness to say no to her request. She’d asked him to be her accompanist and he’d said yes, handing his heart over to her as well, without a second thought.

“Erik, why am I on top of you? Was this your not-subtle way of telling me you wanted some cowgirl action this morning?”

He rolled his eyes and grinned. She didn’t remember her dream, then. He didn’t want to remind her of it, didn’t want to upset the gentleness of this morning. “Actually, I can’t feel my legs. You’re going to need to move soon.”

“You don’t need your legs for me to be on top.” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively, and he couldn’t help laughing as she rolled off him, groaning at the pins and needle sensation of blood rushing back to his limbs a moment later. Christine curled up beside him, tracing patterns across his chest with the tip of her pointed nail.

“What do you want to do tonight?” he asked once they were quiet again. “We can go someplace nice, if you want? That seafood place on Harper that you like?”

“No,” she said wrinkling her nose. “They’re not nice to you. And considering what we spent last time we were there, they ought to have been licking your boots instead of giving us rude looks.”

It was true, they weren’t nice to him, he mentally agreed. Not that many people were, but he and Christine were a recognizable couple in the downtown area at that point, yet the maitre d’ at that restaurant couldn’t seem to resist the sour look of disgust he’d level on Erik the few times Christine had whined about wanting lobster.

“I don't want to go anywhere. Let's just stay home and snuggle,” she said, laying her cheek against him. “This isn’t our anniversary,” she reminded him “but it is special. I'll make dinner. After you come home from rehearsal, we'll just stay in, okay?”

“That sounds perfect,” he murmured, leaning to drop a kiss to her hair. He didn't need to go to rehearsal, he thought. Conrad Bryson had barely been to three rehearsals since the semester began; he'd go to his office today and remind the man that _he_ was technically the director of the chamber group, not Erik. He didn't especially want to see Daniel either, not until he'd heard something from his people. The update he’d received the previous morning had been frustratingly free of any concrete happenings. The realty company was “reviewing” his offer, but since the building was technically not for sale, the ball was in their court. He hadn’t told Daniel what he’d done, or what he was trying to do, and he’d decided it was a situation where it would be easier to ask forgiveness than for permission.

He'd come home after his last class and surprise Christine with flowers, maybe a piece of jewelry...there was a boutique that carried Van Cleef nearby, he was certain of it. Despite her insistence that this couldn't possibly be their anniversary, it was the day that had started everything, and it held a special place in his heart.  
.  
.

He’d shouldered his way into the apartment that evening, with a massive bouquet of lush dark red roses and a slim jewelry box in his arms. The smell of roast chicken greeted him, but Christine was nowhere to be found. 

He carefully laid the roses on the kitchen island, tucked the jewelry box in with his papers on the piano, and turned down the hallway to find her. When he opened the bedroom door, she gave out a high pitched squeak, dropping the towel she’d been clutching. For several heartbeats neither of them spoke. Her mouth was frozen in a mask of surprise, her wide blue eyes bulging comically in shock, her hands still in front of her, curled to clutch the towel that was no longer there. He stood transfixed, unable to pull his eyes from her naked body, still flushed from her shower. His eyes traveled up her long legs, reverently visiting each of her soft, round curves before meeting her eyes. He gave her a wolfish smile, and then she was coming at him. He opened his arms to receive her, only to have blows rain down on his chest.

“What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?! Were you tiptoeing?!” she shouted, and it was all he could do to shield his still-masked face. “You almost gave me a heart attack, Erik!”

Her fists bounced off him and he chuckled darkly, sweeping her into his arms as she shrieked again. “You’re the temptress traipsing around naked in the middle of the afternoon.” He dropped her to the middle of the bed, covering her with his body, kissing her deeply.

“What are you doing home so soon?” she asked, pulling off his mask and flinging it across the room. He heard it thud against the closet door as he kissed his way down her neck, across her collarbone, pausing to pay homage to each of her breasts. The smell of her lavender shampoo and body wash overwhelmed him; the soft, comforting smell of Christine enveloping his senses.

“My spidey sense was tingling and I knew there was a beautiful, naked woman in my bedroom,” he murmured into her navel, swirling his tongue over her before continuing his journey south. 

The soft pink glow from the salt lamp on her side of the bed illuminated her as he gazed up from where he now knelt on the floor with hooded eyes. That first night together, the night they now celebrated as their anniversary, after they’d moved from the sofa to the bedroom, he’d desperately wanted to taste her; to kneel before her and pay reverence to her body, to everything that was _Christine_...but he’d not had the courage to even try; had been too nervous that she’d not like him to do so, that she wouldn’t like his efforts if he _did_ try. He’d been too worried about the mask getting in the way, possibly knocking askew. Now though...he worshipped her with his mouth as often as he was able. Coming home early from work on their non-anniversary anniversary seemed like a perfect occasion to indulge, he thought as her fingers threaded through his hair and the world outside of her breathy gasps ceased to exist.

.  
.

“Babe, can you please open the wine? It needs to breathe.” 

He pressed a kiss to her shoulder before bending to the wine fridge, as she diligently stirred her risotto. Once they’d finally left the bedroom, she’d tasked him with setting the table while she took her chicken out to rest. She’d placed long white tapers in holders on the table, which he lit after turning on soft music. She’d given him a watery smile and kissed him softly when she saw the roses, which she’d placed in a vase between the wavering candles.

“Is this your engagement chicken?”

Fragrant rosemary wreathed the platter she carried, and he saw that she’d stuck a sprig of it in her hair. “Yes. This is the fanciest thing I know how to make,” she laughed. “And look, it worked! We _are_ engaged. All those stupid magazines were right!”

He’d put the necklace on her after the dishes were cleared away; a platinum infinity symbol wrapped in diamonds, a brilliant sapphire suspended in the lower loop of the design. He’d waffled over purchasing her another sapphire piece or something to go with the ruby earrings he’d already put away for her birthday, ultimately deciding the continuity with her engagement set was more symbolic this year.

Her eyes glistened with tears as she turned to him. “Erik, you spoil me,” she said on a hitching breath. A Sam Cooke song had begun, and she pulled him to the center of the living room. “Dance with me,” she whispered.

Nails gently scratched the nape of his neck as she wrapped a hand around him. Her other hand pressed to his heartbeat, her head resting below his shoulder. He stroked slow circles against her back as they swayed to the music, the hand on her hip holding her close. Three years since she’d entered his life; three years of color and laughter and love, of Christine. As they moved together in flickering candlelight, he wondered if he’d ever wake up from this dream, and hoped his heart would be kind enough to simply stop beating if that ever happened. Until then, he would savor the feel of her in his arms, lock the memory of this night away with all of the other perfect nights in his heart. He pressed his unmasked face to the top of her head, brushing his lips against her. 

“Erik?” she whispered. “I’m glad you opened your door that day.”

He chuckled, pulling her tighter.  
“Me too. I love you, Christine.”

.  
.

“Did I tell you that Phil and Lianna want to come see the show?” Meg asked him, before taking a giant bite of her pizza. “Oh my God, this is so greasy, I love it,” she said through her mouthful before continuing. “Isn’t that so nice?!”

“They seem like they’re mostly nice people,” Erik mumbled, cutting his pizza into tiny squares with a knife and fork. He’d bumped his head on the faux-tiffany glass pendant lamp when they’d sat down, and it was still swinging haphazardly above them.

He wasn't sure what was wrong with him that day. Christine had accused him of being sullen that morning, Nadir had questioned his ‘moodiness’ before he’d stomped out of the building to meet Meg for lunch. He couldn’t put words to how he was feeling; he’d simply rolled out of bed with the premonition it would be a bad day, and apprehension had been hanging over him since. 

It had been an oddly tense week, and their non-anniversary had been the only bright spot. A flu virus was wreaking havoc on both students and the staff, with midterms just weeks away. Christine was already getting busier with the orchestra choir, leaving him alone several nights a week. His broker had come to him with a steep counter offer from the realty company, far more than he had wanted to pay, but he saw no other way to secure his plans. He’d had his nightmare, the same one from before Christmas, almost every night that week, and the dark, haunting melody of it was always skirting around the edges of his consciousness. He tried to tell himself that his mood that day was a culmination of several stressful days. Meg’s pixie-like eyes shone with amusement as he jabbed his knife into the defenseless mound of cheese with more force than was strictly necessary.

“Before you say a single word, I already told you I don’t want to feel like I have greasy hands the rest of the day.” He brandished the butter knife at her and she threw her hands up defensively with a laugh.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You were thinking it, I could tell,” he grumbled, spearing a forkful of gooey cheese-covered crust. “Is Raoul coming to your show?” he asked carefully, keeping his voice as even as he was able.

She grinned again. “No, I’m pretty sure he hates me now too, which is fine. I’ve been tainted by my friendship with you. And _his_ friend is the one who sent the unimpressive dick pics, so no loss for me.”

Erik snorted, but said nothing. They hadn’t talked about Daniel coming to see her show the opening weekend since he and Christine had returned from their weekend at her family’s house, beyond Erik confirming that he had, in fact, mentioned it to the young man. Knowing Meg as he did, he didn’t want to push. The little ballerina could be contrary to a fault, for no other reason than she didn’t want to be told what to do.

“Ooo, I almost forgot, I have to ask a favor,” she said around another mouthful of pizza before swallowing and patting her lips delicately with her paper napkin. “Roman mentioned that he might want me to go to Poland for a workshop over spring break! Isn’t that so cool?! It’s not set in stone yet, but if I do go could you watch Leonard while I’m gone? Unless you and Christine are going away?”

“No, we don’t have any plans”, he murmured thoughtfully. “Of course I’ll watch him.” Christine would likely be too busy with rehearsals for the orchestra’s St. Matthew’s Passion at that point for them to make plans to go to the lake, or anywhere else. He certainly didn’t mind watching Meg’s cat, who’s health had stabilized since his surgery, she was happy to report. Still on the mend, but getting there.

The news that Roman Wisnewski wanted to take her out of the country for a week did not sit with him nearly as well. He ran a tight ship at his company with unfaltering quality, and it was exciting that Meg might get the chance to grow her skill set...but Erik didn’t particularly like the man, and knew of his reputation. Winewski didn't take advantage of his performers, but he’d had flings with more than a few, or so Erik had heard.

“It’s just as well that Raoul doesn’t like me now,” she mused, suddenly jumping back to the previous topic. “That way you don’t have to grit your teeth and be nice to him any more than necessary. I don’t know how you do it, you’re definitely stronger than me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I’m certainly _not_ nice,” he grumbled, giving her a rancorous look, annoyed that he was being forced to think about Raoul Chagny. “Besides, what am I supposed to do, threaten to dismember him every time we have to see each other?” He thought of the research he’d done last summer, preparing to do precisely that.

Her silvery laugh echoed around the small dining room. “No, but I’m just saying...I know myself. I’m a crazy, jealous bitch. I wouldn’t be able to be around my fiance’s ex that way.”

“It was a long time ago,” he muttered sullenly into his plate. He _especially_ didn’t want to talk about, or even think about Christine’s romantic history with the popinjay. It was almost like Meg was _trying_ to make his mood worse.

“Yeah, I guess so. It feels that way at least! If it makes you feel any better, and it should, she was way happier when she started dating you. You guys are so perfect for each other...it was like a night and day difference, seriously.”

Meg’s words took a long moment to process in his mind. _That doesn’t make any sense_. Meg didn’t even know Christine before they were roommates, how would she know if she was happy when she dated Chagny in high school? _She wouldn’t, not unless_...

The boisterous conversation and clinking silverware and glasses of the other diners in the room faded out as several things suddenly clicked into place for him. Christine’s stubborn refusal that Raoul Chagny was ever more to her than a good friend certainly didn’t jibe with the man’s own attitude and words Erik had overheard on New Year’s Eve. He had asked once, during their first year together, if she had any any old boyfriends at the school that might wind up in his classroom at some point. She’d answered firmly in the negative, that she’d never dated anyone at the school, and promptly changed the subject. 

The dawning realization that Christine's relationship with Chagny had obviously expanded beyond her teenage years must have shown in his eyes. If he hadn’t been staring slack jawed at Meg, he would have missed her face as she’d taken in his expression of black clarity; the precise moment when she’d realized that she’d wedged her gnarled, size six pointe shoe sideways in her mouth.

“Oh fuck me, you didn’t know, “ she whispered, covering her mouth with both hands.

Erik thought, as he often did, that the biggest downfall of being born without a nose was his lack of ability to flare his nostrils like a furious, charging bull. “Erik, I am so sorry!” She was reaching across the table then, latching her dainty hand around his wrist. “I thought you knew! You act like you knew they were together!”

“She told me she’s known him since she was a kid, and that they had dated when they were teenagers,” he gritted out in a voice that was far calmer than he felt. 

Meg nodded in frantic agreement. “That’s true, they did! That’s what she told me too!” She seemed happy to let the conversation end there, but he needed to hear the rest, no matter how painful it might be, he decided.

“ _And_?”

Her face twisted. “Erik, _please_ , I’m sorry I said anything, it’s not my place. Please/ don’t put me in the middle, you have no idea how hard it is being friends with two halves of a couple.”

He jerked his hand out of her grasp at her words, cradling it against himself as though he'd been burned. Being friends with Meg was _easy_ , the easiest thing he'd ever done that involved another person. To hear that being his friend was apparently arduous work to her stung. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, steeling himself against the hurt he felt at her words, pushing a wall up around it in his mind. If that was how she felt, he certainly didn’t want to impose upon her time.

“You’re right,” he said succinctly, balling up his napkin and throwing it down on his mostly untouched food. “I have no idea what that’s like.” He was out of the chair and moving across the restaurant before she realized what he was doing. He heard her feebly call his name again as the door swung shut behind him, before he turned up the sidewalk, moving with long strides until he knew she had no hope of catching up.


	19. Chapter 19

The chamber group’s rehearsal was three quarters of the way through when he became aware of eyes fixed on his back. He never turned around, decided not to give her the satisfaction of acknowledgement, but he sensed a presence that had not been there earlier, felt her gaze boring into him. 

It had been three days since he’d left her in the little pizza shop, three days of deftly avoiding calls and responding to texts with impersonal shortness. She couldn’t accuse him of avoiding her, he was simply not in his office much between classes, finding it a good time to copy notes and visit the piano lab. He was _working_ , he told himself. She was busy with performances every night, so there was no need to concoct reasons to be occupied in the evening. 

He’d already decided he would not confront Christine with the half-truth of which he’d nearly had a glimpse. Once he’d left Meg sitting in the pizza shop that afternoon, Erik had spent the rest of the day turning her words over and over in his mind, comparing it with what Christine had told him previously, and what he’d overheard himself. 

_When he kissed me, it was like kissing my brother_

Christine had always maintained the Chagny’s were like family to her; had joked about feeling like she was dating her brother when she and the popinjay had been involved in high school. 

_Why then_?

Why had she been with him at all? He pondered over all he had learned about Christine’s adolescence and teenage years as he shouldered his way into the frosted glass door of the apartment’s gym. He thought he might understand her reasons for turning to someone who was familiar and comfortable, who had nothing to do with her everyday life at school with her cousin. He didn’t like it, but he thought he understood.

Erik had discovered, shortly after moving into this building, that the gym on the lowest level before the basement storage was almost always deserted mid-day. The high rise was far too expensive for students who may have cluttered up the space day and night, appealing primarily to business people who wanted the proximity and trendiness of living downtown, while having all the amenities of a hotel.

Fortunately for him, those same business people were not yet home from their jobs in the late afternoons, leaving him free reign of the treadmill and weight machines. It was the treadmill he made use of now, the mindlessness of running being a good stand-in for pacing, allowing him to think.

He considered the way Christine had accused him of being irrational, of overreacting, of being needlessly jealous over her continued relationship with the popinjay, the way she insisted it was an innocent friendship. 

_An innocent friendship_.

But that wasn’t what Chagny himself had alluded to, was it? Didn’t explain why she took such pains to conceal from him her conversations with the boy...

_I have begged you to give us another chance so many times_

That didn’t seem innocent; definitely didn’t seem as if the boy had accepted that Christine’s friend was all he was, as she’d insisted he had last summer, Erik thought in irritation as he gradually increased the treadmill’s incline.

Christine was not some stupid, empty headed ingenue, yet she’d continually accused him of being jealous and paranoid for feeling like her innocent friend was angling to be something more--and clearly that’s what the boy had indeed been doing, all along. _You should have dismembered him when you had the chance, idiot_. 

Erik felt his lip curl into a snarl as he thought about the way he’d witnessed the popinjay’s hands all over Christine at the lake...for God’s sake, the boy had broken up with his girlfriend when he’d learned he’d have Christine all to himself on that vacation! How could she be _that_ blind? She had reassured him with such earnestness, both before and after her trip, had spoken to Chagny with such vehemence on New Year’s...the reality of the boy’s aim and intention and the rose-tinted reality in which Christine preferred to live didn’t completely align. 

_I love you so much, Erik_

He stopped short, nearly losing his footing as he stumbled off the treadmill’s racing deckbelt, having forgotten where he was for a moment. He caught sight of his reflection in the far wall; a tall, menacing, wraith-like figure, face obscured under the thin, almost gauzy covering he wore for such pursuits. Under the thin balaclava, he could feel his hair curling with sweat, could feel his shirt clinging to his back. He had no idea how long he'd been down here, but it was time to head upstairs before the respectable inhabitants of the building came home.

It didn’t matter. Christine had chosen _him_ , for reasons he could not fathom, but she had. She had picked their comfortable life together, a life with _him_ over the open arms of the Chagny boy, and that was all that was important. 

He pulled his towel from the gym bag on the floor next to him and wiped down the machine as he chewed his lip...It didn’t matter, none of it mattered. He didn’t own her, she wasn’t his property...he couldn’t lock her away with him in some dark place and control her interactions, as much as he might have wished to, couldn’t expect her to disclose every bit of her life before he’d entered it to him, not when there was a small mountain of things he’d not told her. 

Erik’s legs were quivering by the time he’d made it to their door, having jogged up the emergency stairs, rather than risk having to share the elevator with the neighbors who’d be returning from work--nice, normal people, with nice, normal faces, most of whom had no idea they shared the building with a monster. He’d continued his internal pep talk as he climbed the steps, one floor after the next. He didn’t need to hear about Christine’s previous relationships, couldn’t expect her to recount details and names, not when he had no intention of ever telling her the sordid details of his own sexual past. That she omitted the whole truth about the boy didn’t matter, he kept repeating to himself. 

He'd lied to her plenty. 

When she’d come home later that evening after her rehearsal, he’d had her dinner warming in the oven, the laundry done and put away, and the kitchen and bathroom bleached and scrubbed within an inch of their lives. She’d raised an eyebrow at his stress cleaning but said nothing, leaning up to kiss his unmasked cheek. He’d listened quietly as she chattered as she ate, sat quietly at his piano, staring blankly at his score as she studied her vocal ped notes, and quietly followed her to bed when she’d tugged on his hand. Once the lights were out and they were settled under the duvet, her fingers had ghosted over his shoulder in the dark.

“Erik, is everything alright?”

His throat was suddenly thick, and he found himself unable to answer. All of his confident words to himself fled, along with any lingering resentment he may have been holding onto. He had no idea why she was here, why she'd chosen him, why should would stay. All he knew was that he wasn't sure if he'd be able to put himself back together when she inevitably left. The gentle pressure of her fingertips kneading into the juncture between his neck and shoulder undid him, made him shudder, and he turned into her, allowing himself to be folded into her arms. He felt her kiss the top of his head as he buried his monstrous face against the swell of her breasts.

“What’s wrong, baby?” she whispered, her arms tightening around him, fingers gently carding through his hair until he was able to swallow around the emotion that threatened to suffocate him.

“I love you,” he choked out, attempting not to let his voice break. It didn’t matter. She was there holding _him_ , had chosen _him_. Nothing else mattered.

“I love you too, Erik. You know that.” He felt her lips press to his hair again, and then they were quiet, although her arms remained secure around him through the night.

.  
.

He spent the next several days keeping himself busy. Nadir came bursting into his office on the second day after he’d walked out on Meg, purple with fury and brandishing a manila folder.

“ _You_.”

Erik pressed his lips together in a grim line. He’d just been about to slip out and disappear to a room in the performance lab, making himself scarce until his next class. At least Nadir’s presence would be a deterrent from anyone else who may have come seeking him, he thought. He settled back in his desk chair and affected a nonchalant air. “Yes?”

“Do you know, Erik, that my wife hasn’t seen a large part of her family in forty years? Not since her parents fled Iran. Can you imagine the thoughts that went through her mind when she received an email from a dark web address marked ‘Haram’? How _panicked_ she was?”

Shit. 

He had forgotten that Sanaz’s family had fled Iran during the revolution. He felt a stab of guilt, for he hadn’t meant to cause her distress, at least not in that way. Erik was inordinately fond of Nadir’s wife; Sanaz was a cosmetic dermatologist who gleefully discussed her most disgusting cases with him, and regularly showered him with samples of medical-grade scar creams and moisturizers for him to review before she’d push them in her practice. Perhaps the dark web address was overkill, he conceded.

“How terrible. Was it a coded message from her family?” He kept his voice light and even, watching as the vein in the side of Khan’s forehead popped. 

Khan flung the folder down on Erik’s desk, and its contents slid out. Printouts of several black and white surveillance photos of Nadir; one of him in the drive-through line at the McDonald’s near campus, the following two showing him devouring the pork sausage breakfast sandwich that he’d purchased. Erik bit the inside of his lip to keep it from twitching.

“ _You_ did this! You are the only person I know who would be so...so petty! And spiteful!”

When life became unbearable, it was important to focus on the little things. That was something he’d been told in the hospital in Paris, after he’d been stitched up and sent to an in-patient program, and it was advice he’d tried to internalize. He was avoiding Meg and was trying not to focus on the pervasive thought of Christine together with Raoul Chagny, so he needed to focus on the little things in his life that brought him joy. 

The piano in the lab he favored that had been freshly tuned. The power outage the previous afternoon that resulted in his last class being cancelled. The little white dog he had a conversation with every morning outside the coffee shop he preferred. The smell of Christine’s freshly washed hair. Tormenting Nadir Khan. Erik couldn’t help it; being a permanent thorn in Khan’s side was second nature at this point, and he'd never repaid the man for the Halloween debacle to his satisfaction.

“That’s dreadful. Poor Sanaz, I know how hard she works to keep a halal home.”

The strangled sound of rage Nadir gave indeed brought Erik a small measure of joy.

“She is putting me on a _diet_! _You_ did this, Erik! And you go out of your miserable way to eat bacon in front of me all the time!”

Erik couldn't help his gleeful smile. It was true, he did. “It's not healthy to eat garbage at your age,” he said lightly. “And poor Sanaz takes her observance very seriously. I can't imagine how upset she was to learn of your transgressions.”

When Khan stomped out of his office after raging at Erik for a bit longer, he found he was feeling much better. There was something to that particular advice, he thought, humming happily.

.  
.

The feeling of contentment had last for several hours, until now. Standing at the front of the room, his musicians before him, Erik could feel her dark eyes boring into his back, and the tight feeling immediately returned to his chest.

He knew it wasn’t fair to put Meg in the middle of his and Christine's relationship issues; wasn’t fair to make her feel like she was being forced to pick a side. She needn’t worry, he’d decided. He had to remember that ultimately she was Christine’s friend first. He’d allowed himself to grow too attached, and this entanglement of emotions was a grasping, clinging vine that needed aggressive pruning back, away from his heart. Keeping things light and superficial was the only way forward. 

She’d forget she was ever friends with the masked freak from the music department and he’d...he’d be fine. He always was.

He tried to remember this when he turned to see her hunched miserably in her chair, gripping the back of the seat in front of her. Her eyes looked tired, and the pinched look he remembered from so many months ago was back on her face. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked, after the room had begun to clear out, in a voice that was slightly sharper than he intended.

For a moment, her jaw moved without producing any sound. “I-I wanted,” she stopped suddenly, clearing her throat. She swallowed hard before speaking again. “You're avoiding me,” she said finally, rising to her feet. 

“Why aren't you at your show?” He was annoyed that she had sought him out, irritated that he felt cornered. Of _course_ he was avoiding her, obviously that was what he was doing. Why couldn't she just take a hint and leave well enough alone?

“The alternate is on Thursdays,” she answered tightly. “I'll be on the rest of the weekend. Are you still planning on coming?”

“Of course, we promised you we would come see it and we shall.” He kept his voice reigned and calm, and Meg flushed at his patronizing words. Her nostrils flared in anger, and he felt a flash of envy before repeating his sharp question. “Why are you here?” 

“Why are you avoiding me?”

“I’m not avoiding you,” he hissed, turning to jam his music into his bag. “I’m busy. You’re busy. You texted me, I responded. How is that avoiding you?”  
He didn’t give her a chance to take a breath to answer. “It’s too hard to be friends with both of us.” He zipped the bag with a savageness the well-worn leather didn't deserve. “I’m helping you simplify. You’re welcome.”

“That is never what I said!” He hands were clenched and her dark, almond eyes narrowed to slits as she glared up at him in fury. It was almost comical, he thought. She was, perhaps, the least intimidating person on the planet, and her miniature rage would be endearing, were it not directed at him for this reason.

“That is _exactly_ what you said.” He flung his bag down and whipped around to face her fully. “You’re right, it’s too much, it’s not fair to put you in the middle. You don’t have to worry about it. Now if you don’t mind, I need to make sure this room gets locked up, so you should be on your way.”

She erupted. “You are such a fucking asshole!” she bellowed at him. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Erik saw Daniel Barbezac come back into the room, after having wheeled the stack of chairs from rehearsal out, and upon hearing Meg’s furious words, had the good sense to turn himself right around and leave again. Erik hoped he’d have the brains to leave things well enough alone for the night. 

Daniel had approached him at the start of that night’s rehearsal with a particularly constipated look, and Erik had precious little patience to deal with his endless questioning with his mind in such a disarray.

“Something is happening over on Union,” he’d said significantly, in a low, urgent voice as Erik shrugged out of his coat after arriving at the rehearsal space. “I can’t get anyone to talk to me all of a sudden...we need to discuss things.” 

“Later,” he’d said firmly, hoping to delay this particular conversation. _He_ was the something happening, after all, not that any headway had been made. His counter-offer was still “under review”, although the news that the realty company was now stonewalling other conversations was a positive development.

“But sir--”

“I said _later_.”

He’d let a bit of sharp coldness blow into his voice, a shade of the old man, and it had the desired effect. Daniel had stiffened and recoiled slightly, his brow furrowing. He’d nodded in acquiescence, as Erik had known he would, although his warm brown eyes had been narrowed. _He’s too smart by half_ , Erik had thought, surreptitiously watching as the younger man had moved away. It seemed that Meg’s rage had apparently eclipsed his tenacity, at least for the moment. 

She was glaring up at him, her small fists balled at her sides.  
“Why do you think _you_ get to decide my friendships? I never said it was hard being friends with you! Do you even hear yourself? Do you hear what a fucking _idiot_ you are?” 

Her face, flushed in anger before, had since gone white with rage. Erik was reminded of the stories his aunt would tell him when he was very small, about not disturbing circles of mushrooms that would spring up in the yard, lest he angered the fairy who lived there. _The fae have terrible tempers, dearest, and you don’t want to anger them_.

“Even if I did decide I could only be friends with one of you, which is complete bullshit, and I _never_ said that, why do you think you get to make that choice for me, Erik? Why do automatically think I’d pick Christine?”

He’d been prepared to cut her off, prepared to rebuke her excuses, but instead he sucked in a shocked breath at her words. She was trembling with anger, looked as though she would throw something at him if an object made itself available. 

_Why do you think I’d pick Christine_?

It was his turn to gape like a fish at her, this tiny, furious woman who had so profoundly changed his daily existence, nearly as much as Christine had.

He didn’t have to _care_ when they went places together--it was still a wonder he’d had someone who wasn’t Christine to go to places with at all!--didn’t worry about what other people thought, whether he was good enough or normal enough, could simply _exist_. He could always count on something funny or scathing, usually both, from her to be peppered in with his texts from Christine throughout the day, and the knowledge that there was someone else who thought of him, had even the tiniest bit of regard for him still stole his breath when he thought about it hard enough. 

His mouth opened and closed and he swallowed around what he was certain was his heart. She stared up at him defiantly until it became evident that she had stunned him into silence. Throwing her hands up in disgust, she dropped into the seat she had previously occupied. The small recital space was only lit now by the ghost light onstage and the security lights around the perimeter of the auditorium. Meg let her head drop back while she took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. 

“I don’t want to be put in the middle, because that’s going to mean eventually picking a side. Christine isn’t as forgiving as you are, Erik. We’re not going to be able to go back to being friends if I say a lot of horrible stuff to her and then you guys make up from whatever dramatics you’ll inevitably drag me in to. Believe me, I can be _mean_ in a fight.”

His brow furrowed at her words, at the implication that if she had to pick a side in a fight, it would be his that she’d choose; that she was assuming there would be a time when he and Christine weren’t on the _same_ side.

“I love Christine dearly, don't get me wrong. She was a great roommate and will always, always be one of my closest friends. She’s a great listener, and she’s fun and sweet and I love her, but she hasn’t been my best friend in a long time.” He slowly lowered himself to sit on the edge of the table so that he wasn’t still towering over her. His stomach was trying to french braid itself at her words, as she continued doggedly.

“And that’s fine! That’s just what happens. It’s not like it’s anyone’s fault, you know? Our lives are going in different directions, and we’re just going to keep getting busier. I’m not easy to get close to...I don’t even know if Christine and I would have been friends in the first place if we didn’t live together, and now we don’t do shows together, and she might be moving away...the only overlap we have in our lives anymore is you, Erik.”

His hands were gripping the edge of the table convulsively as he tried to process her words. He had no frame of reference for anything she was talking about, he thought miserably. Meg was his first real friend, after all; this hierarchy of friendships she spoke of was foreign to him.

“Okay, perfect example between a good friend and a best friend,” she began again, rolling her eyes at his befuddled look. “A good friend tells you to give the guy you’ve been flirting with another chance when he cancels plans on you for the umpteenth time, and gives you a shoulder to cry on. A best friend gives you the shoulder, but tells you you’re too good for him and to forget the asshole.” 

He smiled grimly at her words, as she continued. “A good friend apologizes when they double book themselves and forgets about you. A _best_ friend cancels his frigging classes for the day, affecting like, a hundred students, to come hold your hand at the vet.”

He worried his lip with his sharp teeth and tried to mentally rank and file everything she’d said. It was true, the girls didn’t spend as much time together as they had when he and Christine were first dating, even after she’d moved in with him. The Wednesday dinners had been scheduled as a remedy for that exact reason, before they'd been outsourced to Erik. They’d quickly become _his_ weekly dinners with Meg, turning into lunch several times a week. 

“But you used to talk on the phone, every night!” he protested feebly.

“How much water did you drink today?” she asked sharply.

His smug response was immediate, before he could even stop himself. “Almost a whole gallon, so you can fuck right off, I win.”

Meg’s smile was mirthless. 

Shit.

He couldn’t even remember the last time she and Christine had their once nightly water comparisons. She did that with him now.

She was sitting on the edge of her chair, looking up at him with dark, imploring eyes. “All I meant was that it’s hard to sit on both sides of the fence with you two sometimes. I’ve known Christine longer, I’ve been friends with her longer, we lived together…I don’t know if you know all of the stuff that _I_ know, and it’s not always my place to be telling you, especially when it’s stuff that’s going to hurt your feelings. I don’t want to have to pick a side.” 

Silence reigned in the dark recital hall for several long minutes as Meg continued to stare up to the dark ceiling, chewing the inside of her lip. Erik held his breath until she reached a decision on whatever she was grappling with mentally. 

“We lived together, so obviously I know stuff,” she began again with a resigned sigh. “I know that she and Raoul got back together for a few months, when her dad was sick and after he died. She was...Erik, she was a _mess_. She was out of her fucking mind with grief. But she ended it with him not long after she came back to school! It was like...I don’t know, like she had to put a lock on her grief and be a different person for a while. She went out with a bunch of different guys and was completely miserable and we both swore of men together.” Meg smiled at this recollection, shaking her head a little. “And then she met you.” 

She paused before continuing, and his heart stuttered, thinking of the day Christine had knocked on his door.

“I get that you asked your best friend to marry you,” she went on quietly, “but that doesn’t mean you’re not _my_ best friend. That doesn’t mean you get to make asshole decisions all on your own that affect me, or tell me what to do, because if you think I can’t kick your ass, just remember I’m from a rough neighborhood. You don’t scare me.”

He let out a ragged breath at her words and she snorted in disgust. “So as your best friend, I feel honor bound to tell you that you guys need to fuck less and talk more. Get this bullshit out of the way before it gets _in_ the way. It’s only going to feel uglier after you’re married.”

He chuckled softly at her words, knowing she was right. “That’s probably good advice.”

“Yes, it is,” she responded primly. “Are we good?”

Her words sparked a shiver of déjà vu up his spine, and he recalled the last time she’d said the exact words to him, another scenario in which her persistence against his stubbornness prevailed, when she’d refused to leave his side until they talked it out.

“Yeah, we’re good.”

“Good. You're a tremendous pain in the ass, you know that right?” she grumbled, rising from her seat. “You’re taking me to dinner, by the way. _And_ I’m ordering a to-go box for tomorrow.”

Erik let out an affected, exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes dramatically. An enormous weight had lifted from him, and Meg could have demanded anything from him in that moment.  
“Fine, whatever. Do I get to pick? Because I want tacos.”

“You _always_ want tacos...Is your friend still here?” She looked nonchalantly around, as though Erik’s _friend_ might be lurking in the dark shadows of the theater. “You should ask him to come if he’s still around, it would be rude not to.”

“You mean Bambi? I’m pretty sure your profanity-laced tirade scared him off for the night.”

“Well, that was your fault wasn’t it?” she breezed, sweeping past him with her nose in the air, and Erik bit back a laugh. The time was ripe to get Mr. Barbezac and his dark fairy in the same room together again, and soon.

Less than two hours later, he was idling at the curb outside Meg’s apartment, as she gathered her purse and to-go bag, setting the bag of food Christine on the dashboard before preparing to step out into the cold. Erik felt slightly nauseous from the two pitchers of too-sweet margaritas they'd consumed, and wondered how Meg wasn't swaying for as small she was.

“Think about what I said, okay?” she blurted suddenly, her hand poised on the handle of the door. “You guys need to talk about stuff. I can’t be monkey in the middle all the time. You can consider today a freebie. I love Christine, I do, Erik, she’s my good friend, and I don’t want that to change, but if you guys act like fucking idiots and shit hits the fan?”

She opened the car door before turning to face him, dark eyes glittering, and shrugged unapologetically.

“At the end of the day, I have other friends. I only have one wingman.”


	20. Chapter 20

“Can I ask a question without you getting mad?”

Erik glared at her over the rim of his comically large soup bowl, blowing steam in her direction. The billow of visible mist moved over the surface of his pho as though it were traveling over some massive body of water, curling and rippling, dissipating well before it reached Meg, and he huffed in dissatisfaction.

‘“Why would you ask that way? Now I’m predisposed to be pissed off, no matter what you say.”

“Fine,” she muttered, making a great show of fanning out her paper napkin and placing it primly on her lap. “Nevermind.”

“Oh, please. Just spit it out.”

As he waited, he watched her facial expression shift from one of annoyance to one of embarrassment, then worry before shaking her head.

“Nevermind, it’s too personal.”

Erik felt his eyes roll back almost of their own accord. “Jesus fucking Chri--”

“Prosthetics,” she blurted, her cheeks coloring faintly. “I saw this documentary the other night about this soldier guy coming home from Iraq? It was a while ago, obviously...He had like, half his face blown off in a bomb or something, and when he came home they made him prosthetics for his face.” 

Meg busied herself doctoring her pho, avoiding his eye while she meticulously added cilantro and bean sprouts, squeezing her lime. 

The little hole-in-the-wall pho joint had opened seemingly overnight, just after the semester had started, and Erik and Meg had worked it into their regular lunch rotation almost immediately. The narrow space had cafeteria-style tables and chairs, a massive buddha water feature absurdly squeezed into its tiny entry, and a clean line of sight to the street no matter where one sat. Erik loved it on principle.

The overhead fluorescent lighting usually didn’t get turned on until dusk, leaving the small space lightly shadowed, and very much to Erik’s liking. He drummed his fingers on the side of his red vinyl seat, tapping out the syncopation of the sonata his chamber group would be working on that night while Meg avoided his eye. 

“Anyways, I just thought,” she continued after a moment, “maybe that’s something you could try? Like, I’m sure it’s crazy expensive, but you have the money…” She trailed off, looking up at him guiltily.

Erik paused before answering, stopping his tapping and taking a beat to squeeze his own lime. She was right. Custom made prosthetics of any sort were almost prohibitively expensive...but he did have the money. 

“I have them,” he answered nonchalantly. “You’re right, they were a fortune. Pass me the soy?”

Meg’s brow furrowed and she stared at him blankly. Erik sighed in aggravation, reaching across the small table to where the soy sauce sat at her elbow. “You know, manners are what separates us from the animals,” he grumbled, and his words were enough to snap her out of her stupor. 

“If you have them, why don’t you wear them?!”

He took a giant spoonful of chicken and broth then, buying himself a moment to think of how to describe his reasoning, sighing after he swallowed.

“Because they don’t do an adequate enough job. And they are the very best that I could have made, they’re custom fit exactly to my face...but it’s just not enough.”

He shrugged, continuing to eat his soup. Meg’s eyes narrowed as she began to take a breath to question what he meant, and Erik quickly cut her off.

“You know when you see something that’s just not quite right? It takes a minute to figure out why, like you _know_ something’s wrong, your brain tells you there’s something off...but it takes the eye time to find it. That’s what it’s like. So rather than being able to blend into crowds and be invisible, which is what I want, people stare even more, until they figure out what’s wrong.”

“But with your mask--”

“What do you think the mask does?” Erik challenged her, feeling oddly protective of his leather security blanket. “How do people react? We go to enough places together, this isn’t a rhetorical question. What do you see people do when we walk into a restaurant or a store?”

Meg was quiet for a moment, shoveling in a mouthful of her own pho as she thought.  
“They stare...but they look away,” she said around her mouthful of sprouts before swallowing. “It makes them uncomfortable.” She scowled into her bowl. “People are such assholes, Erik.”

He shrugged, but said nothing. After several minutes passed of them eating in silence, Erik pulled his wallet from his pocket and fished out his driver’s license. He kept it tucked behind several credit cards, with the photo kept facing inwards. Tossing it across the small formica table so that she could form her own opinion, he returned to his soup.

The prosthetics gave him the nose he should have had; the old man’s nose, long and straight, but it felt awkward on his face, and made breathing stuffy and uncomfortable. Adding insult to injury, his skin had a terrible reaction to the adhesive used to secure it, and his disastrous previous experience with surgeries made a bone-integrated unit an impossibility.  
Erik wasn’t sure if the fact that he’d never have a magnetic nose he could snap on and off at will to be a blessing or just another curse, having imagined a hundred different scenarios in his mind of losing his nose in the middle of class or while dining in a restaurant. There would be no faster end to a romantic dinner with his beloved than losing his nose in the midst of the cheese course, he imagined.

The side panels of the prosthesis hid the worst of his scarring and sunken cheeks, but the overall effect did little to alter his cadaverous appearance in any significant way. 

His doctor back home had insisted that he needed to spend more time wearing them to get used to the sensation, that they wouldn't be as uncomfortable with time. He’d had them redone before he’d moved here for grad school, and over the past two years Erik had thought about trying to wear them more, to appear as less of an oddity at Christine’s side, less of an embarrassment for her...but it mattered little.

Like a hidden picture puzzle, people would cock their heads and stare openly until their vision went blurry; until they were able to solve the riddle of why that strange man’s face looked so wrong...Meg’s assessment was an accurate one. The mask made people uncomfortable. They stared when they thought they weren’t being watched, of course, but most people looked away quickly, not wanting to think too hard on why there was a masked man in their midst. Sometime during his most self-destructive years, he’d switched from the flesh-toned covering he’d used to the black he now preferred. No sense in trying to hide it, after all.

“I didn’t know you were from Maryland,” Meg mumbled, sloshing her bowl as she pushed it away to examine the ID. “Do you ever get stopped with that? Do cops make you take off the mask?”

“Sometimes,” he answered quietly with another small shrug, staring into the glassy surface of his soup. “I try not to get stopped in the first place.” 

That certainly hadn’t been the case when he was younger and had driven with a much heavier foot, but he’d learned his lesson over the years. 

Erik remembered very clearly one instance of being stopped by a highway patrol car when he was about nineteen or so. He was on a break from school, had impulsively decided to drive home for the week rather than deal with the loneliness of his off-campus apartment during spring break, when everyone else would be seeking parties to attend with friends or heading to the shore in noisy carloads.

He didn’t need to travel to some far-flung beach to be surrounded by co-eds from Kansas and Kentucky who treated him like an oddity, he’d reminded himself with a sneer. He was from the coast, the pull of the ocean had thrummed in his veins his entire life. When his classmates had been graduating to the deep end of the pool at their local YMCA, he’d been cutting through the waves of the mighty mid-Atlantic, swallowing more salt water than was probably healthy for an undersized child.

Leaving Philadelphia that afternoon, he’d intended on going straight home, to that place that was technically his now, where he’d not been able to return until fairly recently. Erik hadn’t been home in over a year, close to two...some unidentified emotion that constricted his chest had kept him away. 

As he’d driven through Cape May, taking the ferry across the Delaware Bay, his pulse had raced with a nervous anticipation. Staying sequestered in the car on the ferry, he’d huddled low in his seat, nervously chewing on the end of his unlit cigarette, hoping to go unnoticed by the throngs of people heading to the beach for spring break. When they were docked in Lewes, Erik had pulled off the ship as soon as he was able. 

He remembered pulling over to watch the ferry departing. He’d sat there, staring out over the sound until the sun had just begun to set, a brilliant smear of orange and scarlet over the horizon. Most of the other cars had long since departed, leaving him alone in the fading sunlight, seabirds squawking overhead. 

He needed to get on the road, either back to Philadelphia if he was unable to take this step, or onward to the highway that would take him back to Snow Hill, back to that place that would never _ever_ feel like anything other than his grandfather’s house. It wasn’t that he wanted to go back, necessarily, but he was achingly lonely and wanted something, _anything_ that was familiar, that might take his mind off the isolation he felt at school. 

When he’d pulled back onto the road, Erik found himself automatically pulling to the coast; the familiar sights and smell of salt in the air to be too great a lure.

He remembered he’d been muttering about the tourist traffic on the 1, thinking the old man had been right, it really _was_ terrible that time of year. He’d just overtaken a slow-moving minivan with Tennessee plates when the sign for Rehoboth had loomed ahead. 

Jerking the wheel, he’d pressed his foot steadily down on the gas, unsure of what had possessed him to take the coastal highway in the first place. He did not want to linger in Rehoboth, did not want to get caught up in the tangle of emotions and memories that whispered there. 

If he slowed down, he might catch sight of the lights from the small boardwalk, might see the ghost of the happy child he’d once been there, and it would break him. He needed to return to school in a week, and couldn’t afford to risk slowing down; if he did, he thought he might walk directly into the sea. He blew through the small seaside town going at least forty miles over the speed limit, was little more than a black blur in a german sportscar far too expensive for some punk teenager, as he’d heard a middle-aged man in his building grousing on more than one occasion. 

His speed caught up with him just outside of Dewey Beach. He saw the lights in his rearview before the patrol car bothered with a siren, and gripped the steering wheel with whitened knuckles.

“License and registration,” the clipped voice voice had intoned from above his open window. 

He’d taken them from his wallet as soon as he’d pulled off to the shoulder, trying in vain to control his breathing as he berated himself. He knew this was a speed trap, knew there would be another just over the Maryland border, when roads would be jammed with fellow students, crowding into Ocean City for a week of parties and drinking in the sun, living a life he could only glimpse from afar.

The panic attacks hadn’t started at that point, but his teen years had been hard enough, even barring his little six month stint away from the general population, and situations he couldn't control made him incredibly anxious. Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, he’d waited for the inevitable. _Stupid, so fucking stupid_.

“You know how fast you were going, son?”

“Too fast, sir.” His voice was always the one thing he had absolute mastery of; no matter how his emotions roiled beneath the surface, he could always make his voice project an air of cool, detached calm, and it hadn’t failed him then. The cop had eyed his license carefully, peering down into the car with a furrowed brow. 

“Son, I’m going to need you to step out of the car. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Erik hadn’t missed the way the officer’s hand had settled onto the gun at his hip, and supposed he couldn’t blame him, not really. A masked man tearing down the highway as though he were fleeing a crime...small wonder the cop had assumed that was precisely what was happening. 

He’d stepped out of the car on shaking legs, tried and failed to keep a tremor from the hands he placed lightly on the roof. The officer had taken a startled step backwards, apparently unprepared for Erik’s height, for the absolute starkness of the black mask he wore. 

He’d worked to shut his mind off while the police officer frisked him. Closing his eyes, he’d focused on nothing but the sound of traffic roaring by and the truck diesel fumes mixing with the herbaceous, muddy smell coming from the marshy land to the side of the road. 

“You need to take that mask off.”

Instantly, he was slammed back into lucidity with the officer’s command. Erik had swallowed hard before answering, already knowing it was a lost cause. 

“I’d rather not.”

“It wasn’t a request.”

“You don’t want me to do that.” His voice was still even and calm, despite the way his pulse had begun to roar in his ears, throbbing in his neck. “My face it’s--it’s badly damaged. A botched medical proceed--”

“Son, I’m not going to ask you again. Take it off. Now.”

Of course, of _course_ the traffic had stopped then, was backed up in a sea of break lights up the highway. He’d been able to see, in the reflection of his tinted windows, the cars sitting parallel with where he was pulled over. A hatchback packed with a family had looked on in interest, the little boy hanging out the window, his mouth agape at witnessing someone potentially being arrested mere feet away. Behind them was a jeep full of students around his age; Erik was able to hear their laughter and the music from their stereo from where he stood, heard the lilting sound of giggling feminine voices.

“Please not out here,” he’d asked, and his voice had wavered then, his calm facade broken. “Please let me get back in--”

“ _Now_.”

He’d removed the mask in one smooth, practiced motion, clutching it tightly in his hand, his gaze trained straight ahead, staring into the marshy dunes beyond. He’d heard the startled, choked noise, heard the disgusted utterings, but never took his eyes from the dune grass. 

They’d been pulled near one of the turtle crossing signs that dotted the 1; his aunt had taken him, when he was five or six, to this stretch of land between Dewey and Bethany beaches to spot diamondbacks as they made the perilous journey across the always busy coastal highway. He’d felt tears burning their way into existence at the unexpected memory, at being made to stand there completely exposed on the side of the road, at the aching loneliness that stretched out unceasingly in front of him.

It had been a mistake going back there.

He’d stared blankly ahead once he was safely ensconced in his car, after having been ordered to _cover that_ and get back in his vehicle. He’d flung the speeding ticket into the always empty passenger seat once the disgusted officer had left him, had U-turned right back onto the road, picking up his journey at an even higher rate of speed than what he’d been stopped for. As soon as he’d made it over the bay at Bethany Beach, he’d taken a hard turn inland, taking the 113 all the way home to Snow Hill, safe from the water and the memories that lapped around him there.

The masked reflection in the giant soup bowl stared unblinking at him, and Erik considered that it was truly a wonder he’d not attempted suicide any earlier than he had...but also that he might like to take Christine to watch the turtles make the crossing someday.

A touch at his hand made him jump. Meg had entwined her tiny pinky with his as she peered up in concern. Erik stared down at the small, slim digit with its chipped purple nail polish, willingly wrapped around his gruesome, bony corpse’s hand and pulled himself from his reverie with a shake of his head, tugging free of her grasp. 

“People are assholes, Erik.” 

Her voice was harder now, a touch of the fire that had so recently been directed at him was there, as she repeated her earlier words. She slid the license back across the table with a frown.

Erik suddenly remembered that Meg had gone leaping to his defense last summer when she had taken his place at the lake, when Raoul Chagny had opined that he wasn’t good enough for Christine, back before they were friends, before she even knew him very well. His hand shot out, capturing hers as it pulled back across the table, hooking their pinkies once more. 

“They really are,” he agreed. “Like, who was that asshole staring at you outside the building when I picked you up? Does he need to have his legs broken?”

“Mr. Miller?! Erik, he’s like seventy two!” Her outraged laugh warmed him, pushed his melancholic memories back to the corner of his mind where they belonged. 

It was behind him. It was behind him, and he didn’t need to look back, he reminded himself firmly.

“That just means he’ll crack faster. The old pervert needs to keep his eyes on his work, lest someone plucks them out of his head for him.”

By the time they’d left the small restaurant, he’d concocted an entire affair between Meg and the aged Mr. Miller, the maintenance man for her building. 

“All I’m saying is he’d better treat you right. If I find out he’s stepping out with some octogenarian from water aerobics at the natatorium, I’m taking him out, and I don’t care how sad his grandkids will be.”

A woman sitting at the table nearest the door jerked her head up at Erik’s words, sloshing broth over the side of her bowl, and Meg nearly collapsed into giggles as Erik snorted in disgust. The woman’s eyes widened comically as Erik steadied Meg, spreading a broad hand across her back and steering her out the door.

She’d still been giggling uncontrollably as she’d opened the car door, having already heaved her dance bag into the backseat. 

Erik had stopped for a car wash earlier that week, concerned about what the winter’s worth of street salt was doing to his paint job, and had muttered as he vacuumed about what a mess the girls left in his car. He’d sucked up the arm of a cardigan Meg had left behind, found several of Christine’s mis-matched mystery flip flops shoved under the seat, had pulled out a crumpled handful of someone’s class notes, had vacuumed around lip gloss, and had nearly clogged the machine when he’d sucked up a headband.

Signs of life, he thought now. Signs of something other than aching solitude.

“You guys are coming tomorrow, right?”

“Yes,” he answered, easing the car to the curb outside the dance studio. “I might come on Sunday too, we can get dinner afterwards if you don’t have a throng of admirers waiting.”

Meg exited with a wave. She’d told him earlier that the ballet company had a meeting scheduled that week, that she was hoping they’d be making the announcements for the upcoming season. 

“And we might be moving! Did I tell you that? Nothing is official yet, I’ve just heard rumors, but we might be moving to a new theater.”

Erik hadn’t said anything, didn’t know enough about the ballet company to be able to tell her anything concrete, not without showing his hand. He’d spoken to his representative that morning, once he’d gotten to the safety and privacy of his small office, had communicated that he wanted an answer that day. No more waffling, no more _reviewing the offer_...either they were taking it or they weren’t. He’d get himself into that theater one way or another, of that he was certain, but he was tired of dangling, and couldn’t make excuses with his young Baron forever.

.  
.

 

The universe was clearly divining his thoughts as he entered the chamber group’s rehearsal space, for Daniel sat on the edge of the small stage, waiting for him. 

“We need to talk.”  
Words that never precipitated anything good, Erik thought sourly. There was a sharpness in Daniel’s tone that he couldn’t immediately remember hearing before, but considering the way the intern had left him outmaneuvered at the start of the semester, he shouldn’t be surprised. 

Before Erik could gather his thoughts to respond, Daniel rose from where he sat, in the middle of the semicircle of chairs, and advanced downstage. 

“I finally got someone to respond to me today.” He pulled out his phone and pulled up a message as Erik tightened with sudden nerves.

“Mr. Barbezac, thank you for your repeated inquiries into the leasing of the property at 14471 Union Street,” Daniel read in an affected, dramatic tone. “I regret to inform you that this property is currently undergoing a transfer of ownership, and thus we are unable to further discuss the leasing of the building. You will need to direct your thrice-weekly requests to the new owner. I wish you good luck in your endeavors.”

Erik somehow managed to hold in his bubble of laughter. He could only imagine the degree to which Daniel had made himself a nuisance as his overtures were repeatedly rebuffed. The young Baron reminded Erik of an exuberant puppy, all enthusiasm, tenacity, and resolute stubbornness. 

He swallowed the laughter, and it was a good thing, too, for he was currently being glared at by the younger man. But it didn't matter, didn't matter at all because they’d said they were undergoing a _transfer of ownership_. That news hadn’t even been communicated to him yet!

“It’s _you_ , isn’t it.” Daniel stood on the edge of the stage now, glowering down. Erik realized he was _furious_. “You went behind my back and made an offer on the building!”

The recital hall was still empty, save for the two of them, and Daniels voice bounced around the wide open acoustics of the space. Erik felt his hackles raise at the accusing tone. That wasn’t what he’d done at all, he thought with irritation. He’d simply seized on an opportunity to eliminate their obstacles. _But you didn't tell him about it_.

“I didn't go behind your back,” he started in a careful voice. He didn't want to lose his temper, not now, when this was potentially excellent news. “But we had our backs against the wall and there was a time crunch--”

“We were supposed to be partners. You should have told me right from the beginning! We could have made the offer together and--”

“No, we couldn’t.” Erik didn't care then that his voice had cropped several degrees, was skimming along the edge of chilliness. “You have no idea what the next two months are going to be like, how they’re going to go over the finances, what the inspections will entail.”

“Still, you had no right to--”

“ _You_ have no idea what you’re talking about. This is what we wanted, Daniel. This is what I can bring to the table.” 

Erik had been pacing steadily up the aisle, away from the small stage, but reared back around now. 

“You have a name, and it’s a powerful, important name. It’s going to open a lot of doors for us. But it’s your father’s name. It’s your brother’s name. How many hundreds of thousands of dollars can you put up right now without having to dip into your trust fund? Without having to ask your parents for a loan?”

Daniel’s nostrils flared in offense and Erik felt that familiar stab of envy before barreling on.

“When this whole thing crashes and burns, and I hate to be the one to inform you of this, but the odds are excellent that’s exactly what’s going to happen, _you_ get to walk away without losing your shirt. You won’t have to sit across from your brother at Thanksgiving dinner as he goes on and on about how much of your old man’s money you wasted on a failed business venture.”

The younger man flinched then, his face coloring, and Erik knew he’d hit his mark. “I don't have anyone to answer to. I don't have a family, Daniel. I’m the only DeBecque on paper. I don’t need to ask anyone’s permission before I piss my money away.”

Daniel was quiet for a moment, digesting Erik’s words. “And what if it doesn’t crash and burn?” he asked bitingly. “What if you're wrong and everything  
is a huge success? Then you get--”

“Then _you_ get to be the face of a successful theater, and we get to celebrate.” 

Erik felt a frisson of panic race up his spine at the thought of his young Baron walking away now. Despite his confidence in his own abilities, Erik knew he really did need the Barbezacs to deliver the subscribers, had known that from the beginning.

“We’re partners from here on out Daniel, I can’t do this without you. I need your parent’s connections, I need your--”

Erik cut off then, and swallowed hard, steadying himself before he continued. _I need your face_.

“People don’t want to do business with me,” he started again. “I’m not likeable, I’m not friendly. I don’t want to go to fundraisers and schmooze. They want to see someone like you at the helm. We build this together...but the building is mine.”

Daniel walked backwards until his legs bumped into the edge of a chair, and he sank into it. Erik hoped it was a sign of acquiescence. It was a long moment before either of them spoke.

“Fine,” the younger man said at last. “But I’m kept in the loop on everything going forward. I want to be named as a proxy on all major decisions. This isn’t going to work if you can’t trust me.”

Erik felt his shoulders sag in relief as he lowered himself gingerly to the surface of the worktable.  
“I can't promise I'm going to be easy to work with,” he mumbled, staring at the ground. “I'm not--”

“Yes, I'm aware you're not a bouquet of roses. I didn't ask for that. I need you to _trust_ me.”

He pressed the heel of his hand into his masked forehead as Daniel continued.

“I...I think you’re underestimating how much weight you actually carry. Not the DeBecque name, that doesn’t mean anything out here. _You_. People get _excited_ when my mother talks about you at those meetings. Once they find out it’s you behind this…”

“Once they find out it’s _us_ behind this.” 

Erik didn't especially want to dwell on Daniel's other, apocryphal words. He’d had a successful career, a long time ago, but that's all it was. A long time ago. These people had swallowed Vivienne Barbezac’s tale of a piano prodigy and might have heard his name attached to compositions from the school, but they would be less than impressed once they saw him, he knew. Besides, rubbing elbows with donors and society wives was not what he was interested in--that’s what Daniel was for.

A burst of voices could be heard then, echoing in the marble vestibule outside the recital space.  
“I haven’t even gotten confirmation that they signed yet,” Erik said in a low voice as Daniel rose once more. “So all this yelling might be for nothing.”

The rehearsal went smoothly that night, as the group moved through the animato section of the Saint-Saëns sonata flawlessly. Erik wasn't even bothered by Dr. Bryson’s absence; at this point he’d be more surprised if the man did show up to a rehearsal. He’d kept his phone face down on the edge of his chair, next to his water bottle, away from his line of sight, not wanting to be distracted. Soon, he found himself swept away in the music, perfectly rendered by this group of seasoned professionals, music that he pulled from them...it wasn’t until the rehearsal had come to an end that he even remembered his phone, remembered the heated conversation from earlier.

As the musicians packed away their gear, he scooped the phone from where it sat. Two texts from Christine, one from Meg, and a voicemail transcription. Erik bit his lip, waiting until people started to leave before hovering his thumb over the transcription.

“See you tomorrow, Erik!” Geoff Pope called out gaily, waving as he left. Erik raised a hesitant hand in parting, a wane smile on this thin lips as he opened the message. Daniel had already stacked the chairs onto the dolly and was wheeling it down the small ramp towards Erik, his handsome face twisted in consternation again.

“And another thing,” he began peevishly, before looking up and seeing the grin slowly spreading across Erik’s face. “What? Is it from your broker? Did they accept your offer?”

Daniel Barbezac shivered involuntarily when Erik looked up with glinting golden eyes and a predatory shark’s smile.

“Clear your morning. We have paperwork to sign.”

.  
.

When he got home from that evening, after reviewing with Daniel exactly what the morning would look like, Christine was sitting at the dining room table, her vocal ped notes spread in front of her. 

Erik would be signing over a substantial amount of his grandfather's money to get the closing process started, while also signing the the documents making Daniel a legal proxy on all dealings with the zoning board and inspectors. Purchasing a commercial space was a lot more involved than a residential home, he’d explained, and they would have an uphill battle for the next sixty days at least. The deal might fall through a dozen times or more. 

“...and until the keys and title are in our hands, we keep this to ourselves. I’m not willing to compromise on that, I don’t want anyone knowing what we’re doing until it’s done.”  
Erik had thought long on that aspect; he didn’t want it getting out at the school, where the briefest whisper spread like wildfire amongst both faculty and students. 

“Oh, and Christine and I are going to see our friend Marguerite’s dance performance tomorrow, if you wanted to meet us,” Erik dropped in casually, noting the way Daniel’s face lit up at the mention of Meg. “In the meantime, I’ll see you in the morning.”

Christine jumped up quickly when he came through the door, hurrying around the kitchen island to meet him with a kiss.

“Hi, babe,” she breathed into his neck, wrapping her arms around his narrow waist before he’d even had a chance to fully step into the room. “I barely saw you all day, I missed you,” she pouted, as Erik struggled to free himself from his bag. It was a nigh impossible task, with her wrapped around him as she was. 

“It’s my long day, angel. You know that,” he muttered, trying in vain to reach the coat rack.  
Christine had fused herself to his front, her face pressed to his chest, and her hands fisting into his thin sweater beneath his heavy peacoat. 

“I went to your office to have lunch with you, but you were gone.”

Erik frowned. She never came seeking him out on Thursdays, claiming she liked the opportunity to work on her own repertoire knowing he wasn’t home waiting for her. While it was true that they rarely went through a day without seeking each other out, it did on occasion happen.

“Christine, for God’s sa--can I please take my coat off? Please?”

She jumped and released him quickly, looking abashed. Erik sighed, pulling her to the living room, after hanging his coat on the rack and kicking off his shoes in the vicinity of the mat. 

“What’s all this about?” he murmured into her hair, after pulling her down across his lap on the sofa. Christine's arms had wound around him again, her lips pressed to the hollow of his throat. Both of the lamps on their small end tables were on, the television flickered against the wall, the hall light had been on when he’d stepped through the door, and the kitchen was completely lit up. He frowned again.  
“You always go to the lab on Thursdays, angel.”

“I just missed you.” Her voice was small and needy, and under the mask his brow furrowed in bewilderment. He was the needy one in their relationship, not Christine. “I went to find you before your one thirty and you were gone. I thought you were avoiding me.”

“Christine, why would I be avoiding you?” She didn’t answer, just burrowed herself against him, hiding her face.

He tipped his head back and thought for a moment, trying to remember what he’d done on his only break between classes. “I was in Pope’s office. We’re doing this Saint-Saëns piece right now and it’s going really well.”

Erik moved the hand that wasn’t wrapped around her back up to cradle the back of her head as he spoke, pushing long fingers through her thick mountain of curls until he was able to caress her scalp. A little mewl of pleasure came from her throat, and she leaned back into his hand.

“I think I’d like to put together a whole Saint-Saëns program for later this spring...Roselle from the drama circle is partnering with someone from the language department for this French culture exhibition? I thought we might be able to be a part of it somehow, to bring exposure to the group. Pope had a lot of opinions to share.”

Christine had finally turned her face away from his chest. 

“That’s such a good idea. You’re so smart, babe.” She tipped her head up with a little smile as he snorted at her words, a frown quickly replacing the smile on her face as she gazed up to his masked face. Erik was baffled by the tears that suddenly filled her eyes.

“Why are you still wearing that? Take it off right now, I _hate_ it! I want to see _you_ , Erik.”

As much as he teased Christine for being a creature of habit, Erik knew he was the same. He had a routine, and he liked sticking to it. When he came home alone, on the days Christine had rehearsals, he’d change his clothes to work out, swapping one mask for another. When he returned to the apartment, the mask would stay off after showering. He’d prepare dinner, do his grading, and work on compositions until she came home. 

When he came home with Christine, or to Christine already home alone, he waited for her to remove his mask. 

Erik supposed it was remnant thinking of his childhood, and his aunt’s insistence that he was free to do as he pleased in the privacy of his own home. That privacy had been stripped away during his years at school, when he’d worn a mask nearly twenty four hours a day, using one of his soft, cottony sleep masks at night and only finding small pockets of time each day to be bare-faced. The respite of his grandfather’s house had been a blessing during that time in his life, when he was able to regain a small measure of freedom in the solitude of his private rooms.

Once he’d lived on his own, he’d readopted being maskless in his own space...but he shared that space with Christine now, and even though she claimed she didn’t care about his face, pretended that she was used to it and loved it, he thought it rude to presume that she’d want to be exposed to its hideousness the second he walked through the door. And so he would wait, for her to either grant him verbal permission to remove the mask, or to do it herself.

“Angel, I just walked in,” he started, his words cut off by her dragging the leather sideways off his head. He didn’t understand her tears, and felt more than a bit defensive, having the two women he cared about most in the world disparage his mask in a single day.

Nothing more was said, but she continued to cry against him for several long, agonizing minutes. He stroked her hair and murmured soothing words and tried his best not to wince when her nails dug into his neck. 

Erik prided himself on usually knowing exactly how and when he'd fucked something up; it was very rare that he felt like he had no idea what was going on in his life. This was one of those times, and he didn't like it. He decided it prudent to keep his big mouth shut, lest he wedge his foot into it accidentally with a careless word. 

Finally, after an interminable amount of time, Christine’s tears subsided into soft sniffles.

“I made you dinner,” she mumbled quietly, tugging on the open collar of the shirt beneath his thin, black sweater. Dark grey with tiny white pin dots, one she'd bought for him. “Are you hungry, babe?”

He wasn’t, he had consumed what felt like three gallons of broth earlier with his pho, but would eat whatever she had made until he popped, rather than risk upsetting her again. He'd let Christine practically sit in his lap and feed him bites of the Greek chicken she'd cooked, until she was satisfied he'd enjoyed her culinary efforts.

She'd leaned against him in the shower, letting him work conditioner through her mountain of curls, had let him dry her hair afterwards. Later, when she curled against him in their bed, he held her tightly, pressing soft kisses to her hair as she clung to him.

“I have an early meeting downtown tomorrow, so we can’t drive in together,” he said quietly, not wanting to hide this from her completely. “I’m trying to buy a building, down on union...come find me for lunch?”

She tipped her head up, and he could see the questioning furrow between her brows.  
“Like the one you bought in New Jersey last year?”

“Mmhm. It’s a commercial space, good investment opportunity.”

She nodded, and snuggled into his chest. A soft hand moved down his stomach, pausing at the thin trail of dark hair beneath his navel. “Do you want to…”

Erik felt a pull in his groin at her suggestive touch. It had been an oddly stressful day, had been an emotionally stressful week, and he would have liked nothing better than to lose himself in the soft warmth of her body. The way she still clung to him gave him pause, though...this wasn’t his minx Christine with her insatiable appetite, this wasn’t even his sweet angel Christine with her soft sighs and giggles. 

This was her way of trying to give him what she thought he wanted, the whole evening had been one of her ridiculous notions of how she needed to “take care of him.” Erik would have been happier spending the evening listening to her prattle on about her day as they collapsed in front of mindless television for a few hours before going to bed, rather than all the things she thought he “needed.” It wasn’t worth voicing, he knew. Christine claimed to listen, but never actually seemed to hear him in this respect.

“Maybe tomorrow morning,” he murmured into her hair, drawing her hand back up to his heartbeat, before his cock developed the presence of mind to react to her light touch. The were quiet then, and Erik thought, foolishly, the worst of the night was behind him.

“You’re not mad at me anymore?” she whispered into the darkness of the room.

He attempted to shift to look down at her, but Christine was steadfast in her refusal to look up, pressing her cheek to the center of his chest. “Angel, I was never mad at you.”

“Yes, you were. You’ve been sad all week.” Her voice carried the tremor of fresh tears brewing, and he tightened his arms. “I don’t want you to be sad because of me, Erik. I just want to make you happy--”

She cut off on a small, choked sob, and Erik felt his heart fold in on itself. He was always going to be the cause of her tears, always and forever, it seemed.

The lump that had formed in his throat was somewhat difficult to swallow around, and Erik took a moment to steady his own voice. He hadn’t confronted her about the popinjay because he didn’t trust himself; he hadn’t wanted to punish her for something she was well within her rights to keep to herself, yet punish her he had.

“Baby, I was never mad at you,” he said as earnestly as he could, finding her chin in the dark and nudging her face up. 

“Do you promise?”

Her small, childlike voice broke him, and when his lips found her cheeks, he tasted the salt of tears and a knife twisted inside his chest. He didn’t deserve her, would never deserve her, and it killed him a little every time he made her cry.

“I love you,” she murmured in a wavering voice, and Erik was reminded uncomfortably of the same tableau, just a few nights prior, with their roles reversed. “I just want to make you happy.”

He still didn't understand her earlier tears, but this at least he could shoulder the blame for, he thought. Still, it was patently absurd for her to feel that anything was her fault, that she could do anything to make him unhappy in any way.

“I love you more than anything,” he whispered against her temple as she squeezed his side. “This is all I need, Christine. You don’t need to do anything. Just you, right here.”

Erik waited until he felt her breath even out against him before he relaxed enough to let an uneasy sleep claim him.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: someone mentioned in a PM that this chapter ought to have a trigger warning, and I agree.
> 
> TW: for the really real shit that happens to women in the performing arts every single day.
> 
> Although some of you already know this, most do not: 90% of the Wingman storyline that pertains to Erik and Meg's experiences at their university and in the theater district are ripped directly from my life. Like Christine, I made the mistake of attending the world renowned music conservatory in my own backyard, where casting had more to do with happenings behind closed door than with talent, despite the exorbitant tuition. The opera company I worked for fell apart and dissolved due to mind-boggling stupidity and a mismanagement of funds. We lost our ballet two decades ago. Unfortunately, there was no Erik DeBecque to come bail us out, and dozens of performers were forced to find work in other cities. If anyone has questions or would like to share their own stories, please feel free to @ me--my inbox is always open! Please support your local arts companies. Rally around women, demand equality on teaching staffs, and support female directors and department heads. Sadly, Meg's story is the norm.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and reviewing!

_ this whole fucking year is cancelled _

_ i may need to drink my feelings later _

_ i’ll be in the studio if you’re around _

The mid day texts from Meg, regardless of their tone, were a welcome distraction from the tension at home.

It had been several days since Meg’s dance performance, several days since Christine had blown up, and she was still barely speaking to him. His anxious overtures of reconciliation had been met with coldness, and his repeated, increasingly desperate apologies met with stony silence. The gulf of space she left between them on the bed at night felt intolerable; last night he hadn’t come to bed at all, unable to stare at her unmoving back for another night.

His phone, for nearly the first time in three years, showed no messages from Christine as he walked down the block to the school of dance, after his afternoon classes. There was a biting wind that day, gusting between the buildings, scattering rubbish from bins and crunchy dead leaves, long buried under snow until just recently, down the sidewalk. The frigid chill of winter was seemingly behind them at long last, but the steel grey sky and harsh wind seemed to be the perfect backdrop for turmoil.

_ Winds of change, _ he thought miserably.  

Erik hunched against the wind as it cut through his thin merino sweater, jogging as quickly as he could up the building’s steps. The purple collar and cuffs of his shirt were the only pops of color breaking up the long, unbroken line of black he wore. He hadn’t remembered until he’d caught site of his reflection on the side of the mirrored building that Christine had bought this shirt, claiming she loved this shade purple on him, insisting it brought out the honey of his eyes. He tightened himself against the lance of pain, and tugged the door open.

She was at the barre when he found her.

Erik was used to seeing Meg dashing to and from the ballet studio, was well acquainted with the sight of her in her leotard, layered under shorts and leggings, wide-necked sweatshirts that hung off her shoulders and long sleeved tops that tied around her narrow waist. The sight of her now, en pointe in a spaghetti-strapped leotard and rehearsal skirt, was jarring.

She looked so unlike the casual little sprite with whom he would daydrink---this stranger before him was graceful and austere. Her dark hair was woven into a sleek french braid, twisted and pinned up and across her head, and the sheer gossamer of her wine-colored skirt fluttered around her as she maintained a graceful arabesque.

He thought, if it was possible, that despite her grace and perfect form, Meg looked as miserable as he felt. Erik seated himself quietly in one of the folding chairs on the side of the room as she methodically cycled through her positions.

“The ballet might be closing,” she said flatly, her deadened voice a sharp contrast to her graceful carriage. “I guess probably  _ is _ closing is more accurate. We found out today, they lost their lease at the Majestic. Can you believe they weren’t even paying the fucking bills?”

Second arabesque seamlessly transitioned to croisé, and although her voice shook with angry emotion, her form did not, arm still gracefully held aloft. “Now no one knows what’s going to happen. What am I going to  _ do _ , Erik?!” She abruptly broke position and turned to face him.

“You still have the--”

“I know I still have the Cultural Center,” she interrupted his quiet voice. “And I’m grateful, believe me, I am. I’m grateful you steered me there in the first place, I’m grateful that Roman took a chance on me...but I’m a ballet dancer.  _ This _ is what I love,  _ this _ is what I do, this!”

She turned back to the mirror, raising her leg back into position. “The theater company has a full calendar year round, and they don’t want to share the stage. Do you think we’ll be able to afford to go to the Palais?”

“No,” he said quietly. “Not on your own.”

“The Masonic Temple...I overheard a few of my professors talking about it this morning. They said maybe we could move there. It’s where the Shakespeare players started out, before the theater company absorbed them, I guess?”

The stage at the Masonic Temple was too small for ballet productions, he knew; the wings could not accommodate the needs of the company. He kept the thought to himself, knowing it would not make her feel better.

“The company needs to be bought out,” he said quietly. “The subscriber base isn’t big enough for a bailout with all they owe.” He repeated Daniel’s words to her, knowing it would do no good to lie. She was too smart, too observant. She’d find out everything on her own soon enough.

She gave a sharp bark of laughter at his words. “It’s that bad, huh?”

She didn’t question how he knew, why he knew. Meg knew, as he did about her, that he simply had reasons and ways of finding things out.

“Then why the fuck are you still sitting there? Early birthday present, boy-o. Go save my ballet.”

He said nothing, smiling grimly. If she only knew that was exactly what he was trying to do.

“Why is Christine so mad at you?” she asked with a heavy sigh after several beats of silence. “Whad’ja do this time?”

“I meddled in her career,” he answered lowly. “She’s furious with me.”

Meg’s cocked eyebrow and expectant expression met him in the wall of mirrors, and Erik paused, swallowing down his emotion before continuing. “I told Daniel that she sang at the symphony, and that he should tell his her parents about her.”

He twisted his hands miserably, fixing his gaze on the ankle resting on his knee, avoiding her eye. The socks he’d put on that morning appeared to be black with small purple dots. Erik knew that on closer inspection, what appeared as a dot from a distance was actually a tiny purple triceratops. He remembered how happy she’d been the day she’d bought them.

“Babe, guess what?!” She’d bounded into the apartment that afternoon with a sunny smile, finding him working at the piano. “I found dino socks for you!”

He’d learned early in their relationship that Christine had a passionate love of socks, the more whimsical the better. Her feet would alway swathed in colorful cotton bearing some ridiculous print--sombrero-wearing llamas, bananas on a hot pink field, unicorns wearing tutus--although the ridiculous had quickly become adorable in his eyes. It had become a game then, trying to find her silly, twee socks for every occasion. His greatest accomplishment had been olive green ankle socks featuring mustachioed rabbits in top hats, eating pizza, which he’d given her on arbor day the previous year. She had giggled until her eyes were streaming when he’d presented them, kissing each of her toes before slipping them on her feet.

“I got you every dino I could find.” Arms around his neck, her soft lips pressed just behind his ear. “This old lady tried to take the last t-rex pair and I almost flipped her over the shelf. Not today, grandma. Those belonged to you.”

She had steadily been sneaking color and whimsy into his wardrobe since they’d lived together, and the jolt of how much her influence had become his new normal--the shirt, the socks, both put on so unconsciously that morning--of how much  _ Christine _ there was in his daily life, even when she was furious and not speaking to him, brought his heart up to his throat.

“And?”

He looked up to meet Meg’s expectant look in the mirror, realizing he’d stopped talking.

“And he did, and his parents told the director of the choir how much they were looking forward to hearing her...and I pretended I didn’t know what she was talking about when she mentioned it.”

Swallowing hard and wallowing in his shame, he waited for Meg to mete out her harsh judgement.

“Okay, and then what?”

Her eyes were once again fixed on her own reflection the mirror as she continued to shift through arabesques. He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Did you hear me? I said I--”

“I heard you just fine. You told your friend that your girlfriend is a singer with the symphony and that he and his parents should check it out. Isn’t that what a supportive boyfriend is  _ supposed _ to do?”

He blinked. When she said it like that, it sounded so innocent. He knew the truth was twistier, and he came out looking far more manipulative. “That’s not exactly how it happened,” he began in a tight voice before she interrupted him again.

“Obviously that’s not how it happened. Obviously you did some stupid shit like letting anonymous notes flutter down from the rafters on Daniel’s head, because that’s who you are. You can’t take a piss without it being some ridiculous, backtracking cloak and dagger routine. I’m not even the one sleeping with you and I know that! But that’s not what she needed to hear, Erik. All you needed to tell her was that you were proud and excited and you knew your friend’s parent’s were symphony subscribers.”

She pivoted on her toe box to face him then. He didn’t know what magic the toe shoes possessed, didn’t know if perhaps Meg really  _ was _ a dark fairy, but she seemed ten feet tall as she loomed over him.

“How are you so dumb? How do you not now how to play her after all this time? She sure as hell knows how to play you.” She dropped abruptly, turning back to the mirror before rising again. “I don’t understand why she’s so mad. You’re both idiots.”

Erik pursed his lips. He hadn’t come here for this, he thought sourly, although at least Meg was speaking to him. He wished Christine would call him names, that she would rage and fury and scream at him, that she was do  _ something _ other than this intolerable silent treatment.

“Do you know what it’s like for a girl on the stage?” she asked suddenly. “Do you have any idea what we have to go through just to get a chance to do the thing we love?”

Meg continued to move through her barre exercises as she spoke, never breaking her form. “It’s nothing but backbiting and positioning yourself. A guy comes in, and he’s one of three that audition for the season, so he’s guaranteed a credited role and he’s a big fucking deal. Meanwhile, there’s fifty three of us vying for half a dozen spots. And you do what you have to do.”

His brow furrowed under the mask, but she wasn’t watching him, was paying attention to her own reflection, making minor adjustments to her positioning. Her leg was extended across the barre, and with the one foot she had on the ground, she slowly rose up on her pointe shoe.

“There was a summer intensive when I was in high school, and only senior girls could go. It wasn’t an open audition, you had to be referred by your studio instructor to be  _ able _ to audition, so in the end, they’d only be seeing a few dozen girls.”

She paused as she shifted positions, keeping her arm gracefully aloft.

“It was a decent sized program too, so if you got an audition, you had a good shot of making it in, unless you were from podunk studio with no training. My instructor owned the studio with her husband. He was a fucking pervert, always watching the rehearsals, making comments as we headed into the dressing room, things like that.”

Erik’s stomach tightened, already not wanting to hear where the story was going. Meg’s eyes were fixed on her own image in the mirror. She worked on her leg extension in silence for several minutes before speaking again.

“Ms. Renee ended up flying out to the west coast because her sister was in some sort of accident the month the two girls from the studio would be picked. Her pervy husband was in charge, and he made it clear our work at the barre was not the only thing being considered. I was seventeen.”

His entire body had clenched at her words, when she dropped abruptly and pivoted to look at him. He felt his arms trembling with the force with which he was gripping his knees.

“Would you like to hear what I had to do, Erik? Despite your numerous faults, you’re a good guy, so I doubt that you would.” She spun back to the mirror and rose back up on her toes. “I went to the summer program that year. And when I auditioned for school, I used the routine I worked on there. I got a great scholarship, and I never looked back. And that's just the way it is.”

He felt nauseous. Meg was a tiny slip of a girl  _ now  _ and she was a grown woman. The thought of her at seventeen, innocent and fae, desperate for a chance...he was jolted from his reverie when she began to speak again. She was facing away again, moving through stretches.

“Do you remember the opera, after that first year after you and Christine were together?”

Of course he remembered. The university had put up Figaro that spring, and Christine had the small role of Barbarina. She’d been thrilled. Erik had been incensed. “Yes,” he bit out shortly.

“Christine had a credited role.”

“She  _ should _ have covered Countess--”

“She had a  _ credited _ role,” Meg cut him off sharply. “As an undergrad. How many other undergrads were in the show outside of the chorus? I'll answer that in case you weren't paying attention--none. How well do you imagine that went over with her peers? I'm not even a music major and I know what they say about Dr. Andrews.”

Erik sucked in an outraged breath at her words. His hands stood out like bony white spiders as they gripped his back-clad knees, the tendons raised in tension.

He knew what was whispered about his colleague, everyone did. 

The young women cast in the university’s productions were unquestionably talented, which gave just enough plausible deniability to the rumors...but it was mostly common knowledge that time spent on their knees behind closed doors ensured plum roles would go to certain students.

He felt his neck flush at the insinuation behind Meg's words. “Christine would  _ never-- _ ” he began hotly, before he was cut off again.

“Christine never  _ had _ to, not once her boyfriend was staff.” She had whirled to face him, pressing him into his seat with the force of her glare. “It's amazing what doors open when it's common knowledge that you're fucking a well-known member of the faculty.”

Heat burned up to the tips of his ears, and he choked on his breath at her words. The room abruptly pitched as his vision began to whirl with the same speed of his thoughts, as the furious fight they’d had after Meg’s recital replayed in his mind.

_ “Do you even care how this makes me feel, Erik? How this makes me look?” _

He’d been on the receiving end of Christine’s temper before, but Erik wasn’t sure if she’d ever been that mad at him. He was used to her angry tears, her balled fists, and her ability to destroy a room in a rage. This had been different.

_ “How do you think I’m supposed to feel, knowing that every role I’ve gotten is because of you? That all of my hard work counts for nothing because you’ve been manipulating things behind the scenes?” _

Meg’s words reverberated in his skull, swirling with Christine’s fury. Albert Andrews had asked Erik to write a piece for him mid-semester, the same year the opera department had put up Figaro; a baritone aria for a recital he'd done later that spring. He'd approached Erik in September about the recital piece; the opera had been cast just two months later. 

The spot behind his eye had begun to throb as he replayed Christine's furious words, about needing to know that she was being cast on her own merit, without his influence. He remembered how happy she'd been when that cast list had gone up, when she saw her name listed as Barbarina. She had flung her arms around him when she'd come home that night, had squealed in excitement as she told him the news. He’d swallowed his annoyance that her superior talent had been overlooked and kissed her.

He tried to imagine what her reaction would be to learn she'd been given the opportunity only in part because of her relationship with him, and felt sick at the thought.

_ “I don’t want you interfering! You don’t have any right...you had a career and you threw it away. That was your choice! This is my career, not yours.” _

“I don’t understand why she’s so mad,” Meg repeated, pulling him from his dark thoughts. “She didn’t have a problem using the leg up before. Any in is an in.”

“And you wouldn’t care about that?” he challenged, his heart still aching. Christine had been so happy that night, happy and proud, eager to celebrate with him. He couldn’t believe that she’d ever suspected that she’d been cast because of their relationship. “If I were to go to the ballet company office right now and tell them to fucking charge it, and by the way, give my friend the lead in the next production or else, you’d be a-okay with that?”

Meg glared imperiously down at him, and Erik was positive those damned shoes  _ had _ to have been enchanted.

“I belong here,” she said flatly. “I’m just as good as any other girl in this company, better than some, in fact. An in is an in.”

Erik swallowed hard, filing  _ that _ bit of information away for future use.

 


	22. Chapter 22

In hindsight, he should have known that he was overdue for catastrophe. 

Things had been going too well for too long, life had felt far too smooth. His nerves from the start of the semester had faded, he was finally gaining ground on his plans for the opera house, and he and Christine had been wrapped in a blissful cocoon since their engagement. Their lives were filled with little more than their steady routine during the day and heated nights spent in each other’s arms, with few interruptions or deviation. If he’d been a character in a story, Erik thought to himself contemptuously, he would have already predicted his downfall a dozen times over.

It was high time for something to go awry.

.

.

The day of Meg’s performance hadn't borne the hallmarks of disaster, not at the start…

The soft, melodic chime of his alarm, gradually increasing in volume as he ignored it, felt a like a foghorn in his head, the sound bouncing off his skull. Groaning, he swiped blindly at the bedside table to silence the phone. Christine’s tears the night before still weighed heavily on his mind, and the last thing he wanted to do was leave the warmth of their bed for a business meeting. Turning back to her, he groaned again when he felt how achingly hard he was. 

Christine chose that moment to roll against him, pressing herself to his front and he whimpered.

“Baby, you have to get up. You have to go to your meeting.”

Erik pushed his face into his pillow as she whispered against his neck, scratching his chest lightly. He should have never agreed to a meeting at such an ungodly hour, should have never said yes to something that forced him out of bed so much earlier than he needed to be on a normal day. Another whimper as she nuzzled his throat, finally pressing into his erection.

“Well, hello sailor. Good morning to you too,” she murmured before pressing a kiss to the side of his jaw, rocking against him lightly.

“Stop it, we don’t have time,” he groaned, still not opening his eyes.

“Erik, what does that even mean? Of course we have time. Are you planning on going to your meeting like this?” A soft hand slipped down his body, lightly squeezing his scrotum as she spoke, and a burst of stars danced behind his eyelids. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

“We don’t have time,” he repeated in a voice that he would admit to himself was incredibly whiny, his eyes still closed. He could feel her shifting out her pajama shorts as he spoke. “You take forever and I’ll be late.”

His whine earned him a pinch to the side of his bony ass before she prodded him to settle on top of her, yanking down the waistband of his pajama pants. Erik groaned in spite of himself, sinking against the warmth of her body beneath his, running his palm up the side of her endless leg. 

Her tears the previous evening were forgotten, it seemed. 

“Don’t be so stupid. What are you going to do, jerk off in the bathroom when the woman you love more than anything is right here with her legs spread for you?”

“It's not nice to weaponize my sincere words of love,” he grumbled, feeling her small smile at his neck. Christine maneuvered herself until he was settled between her thighs, and Erik hissed, feeling himself throb against her warm center. “And what if you don't finish, hmm? Are you going to hold it against me forever?”

Christine delivered another pinch for his sass.  _ That’s it, _ he thought, pulling her legs over his arms as she squeaked in surprise. If she wanted to be fucked, who was he to deny her?

“If I don't finish, you'll go down on me later before we get ready for Meg's show,” she gasped out as he seated himself within her in one slow glide.

“By my count, we'll have nearly four hours between my last class and when we need to leave tonight.”

Four quick, deep pumps and her head dropped back with a sigh, exposing her long throat to him, and he bent to suck it hungrily.

“Exactly,” she wheezed with a smile. “You're not the only one who knows how to make deals, Mr. DeBecque...mmmmm,  _ God _ that's so good! Right there, Erik!”

He began to pump into her in earnest then. He didn't want to be late, and Christine was clearly enjoying herself, after all. He paused his snapping hips several times, to pull her legs higher around him, ensuring he moved within her at the angle that pleased her most. Despite her assurances, he really did hate the idea of leaving her unfulfilled, especially after her tears last night. 

It wasn't long before he was groaning in satisfaction, pulsing into her as deeply as he could press, quivering with his climax. Christine had snaked a hand between their bodies as he came, continuing to move against him as she stimulated herself. 

The pleasurable pulses of his own orgasm were just ebbing away when she clamped around him with a gasp, forcing an animalistic sound from his throat and another wave of ecstasy that ripped through his groin. Pointed nails dug into the meager swell of his bony rear as Christine rode out her own release with a high moan, and the jolt of pain through the pleasure left him breathless.

At long last, they sagged into the tangle of blankets together and were quiet. Her sharp nails dragged over his scalp as he sought her mouth, enjoying the soft drag of her lips against his for several minutes until his back-up alarm went off, fifteen minutes after the first one he’d set.

Christine sighed in triumph, tugging his hair lightly as he breathed into her neck.

“There, I told you we could do it. We’re pros, babe. Wasn't that better than jerking off in the sink?”

Erik extricated himself from her body gently and rolled away with a disgusted noise. “Jesus, what kind of animal do you think I am? We brush our teeth in that sink! I jerk off in the shower like a gentleman, thank you very much.”

As he spoke, Christine rolled into a shoulder stand, her toes alighting on the wall behind her. 

“Yeah well, go get ready before I leak gentleman juice all over the sheets. Just what I need today, extra laundry.”

He scowled at her from the bathroom doorway. “Christine, that's disgusting. Hurry up and take a shower. We both know you'll just make me do the laund--dammit, my ass is bleeding! Why can't you have normal nails? No more stupid pointed nails!”

She rolled back to a sitting position and vaulted off the bed, brandishing her nails at him like claws as she crossed the room with an adorable snarl. “They're called stilettos and I'm not getting rid of them until the wedding. They're badass and they protect me from ferocious beasts, like you.”

“Yeah, uh huh. I'm gonna cut them while you're sleeping. You've got gentleman juice running down your thigh, hurry up.”

.

.

Christine sought him out in his office later that day, as they’d planned.

“What’s wrong?” she asked as soon as the door had swung shut behind her. 

Erik glanced away from the computer screen momentarily to glance up at her. Her red sunglasses perched atop her golden curls like a crown, and the sapphire and diamond infinity necklace he’d given her for their non-anniversary sat suspended just above the scooped neckline of her lilac sweater. She looked so casually beautiful that it took his breath away, momentarily distracting him from his consternation.

“Hmm? Nothing…” 

“If it was nothing, you wouldn’t be making that face.” 

His heart tripped for a moment as he reached up self consciously to check that his mask had not shifted. Christine rolled her eyes and pulled on the arm of his swivel chair, seating herself across his lap.

“Do you think I can’t tell what faces you’re making under there?” she murmured, pressing her lips lightly to his exposed jaw. “Now, what’s wrong?”

Erik released a long sigh and tightened the arm he’d put around her. “It’s Stanton. He’s missed three classes, and I’m starting to get worried.”

“Your old man friend?” 

Erik rolled his eyes at her words. “He’d a student, Christine,” he huffed, finding the file he’d been searching for on the desktop computer. “Christ, I really don’t want to call anyone. Wanna pretend you’re me?”

Her bell-like laugh bounced around his office as she pulled herself from his lap. “He’s not a student anymore, Erik. Now he’s your classroom groupie. He’s your old man friend, accept it. Did you try emailing him?”

Erik nodded, not wanting to admit she was right. “I don’t have friends, Christine,” he mumbled, pulling up the student directory from three years prior. “I have you and Meg.”

Stanton Thorpe had been an eighty six year old student in his Music Appreciation class the year he met Christine, a class for non-majors. Despite his age, he was lively and opinionated, dropping into office hours to discuss the music that had been reviewed in class, the only student from that time that ever bothered doing so.

When Erik had transitioned into full-time faculty in the school of music, Stanton had followed, auditing his classes and continuing to drop by during office hours every Monday and Friday.

The older man loved to regale Erik with stories of growing up during the war and the music of his childhood--much of which had been included in the class section on sweet jazz and big band. Erik enjoyed the man’s stories, enjoyed the opinionated discussion and perspective, and more than anything, appreciated the fact that Stanton never batted an eye at his mask or treated him any differently. 

If he were to view the situation with the analytical detachment of a stranger, Erik supposed he enjoyed the positive attention of the older man, that it filled a hole within himself that he didn’t like to acknowledge, but he tried very hard to  _ not _ analyze those feelings too deeply, reminding himself often that Stanton was a  _ student _ . 

They’d both been disappointed when Erik’s Lit classes were fully booked this semester, thanks to Meg and her 'masked lothario’ rumor. 

Two weeks into the start of classes, when one of the girls from a giggling gaggle of ballerinas had dropped the class, apparently deciding that whatever rumor Meg had started wasn’t worth the actual course work, Erik had emailed Stanton excitedly, immediately alerting him to the fact that there was a chair for him. Stanton had been a fixture in the class since then, up until the last week.

Now Erik sat with the phone number that had been listed in the campus directory three years ago pulled up on his computer and his hand hovering over the telephone receiver. He detested talking to people on the phone, possibly as much as he loathed talking to people in person. 

_ More _ , he thought to himself. Nothing spiked his anxiety quite as much as the prospect of a phone conversation with anyone not named Christine, as silly as it probably was.

Christine had risen from the seat opposite him, where she'd been pulling two salads from a bag advertising the student Union, and moved to stand behind his chair. “You can do it, babe,” came her soft whisper, followed by a featherlight kiss at his ear.

He tried not to notice the slight tremor in his hand as he dialed, or the way his throat constricted as the line rang. A quick throat clear, and then...voicemail.  _ Hallelujah _ .

“Hello, this is Erik DeBecque, I’m calling for Stanton Thorpe...Mr. Thorpe has missed several classes, and um, I-I just wanted to make sure everything was...okay. I’ve emailed over the listening files for the music we’ve covered in the classes, so that you can catch up, and...and I hope to see you in class soon. Have a good day.”

He hung up the receiver on an exhale, dropping his head back, his pulse thumping in his throat. Before Erik had a chance to move, Christine’s arms had come around him, her plump lips pressed to his temple.

“You’re the sweetest man in the world, have I told you that? You try to act scary, but you’re a marshmallow, and I love you.”

He turned to glare at her. “That’s supposed to be a secret. Don’t you know the walls have ears in this place?”

.

.

She was unloading the dishwasher when he came home several hours later.

“Erik, how did your meeting go this morning? I forgot to ask you this afternoon.”

Following the sound of her voice after hanging up his coat, Erik paused in the kitchen doorway with a smile. She was wearing leggings dotted with cupcakes and a long pink tank top. Her feet were encased in fluffy, dancing blueberry socks, and her mountain of curls tumbled out of a messy topknot, wisping around her face.

She was perfect.

Christine glanced up expectantly, meeting his eye with a soft smile before crossing the room to him.

“It was fine, I was just signing paperwork,” he murmured, as she pulled off his mask, stretching up to meet his lips.

For a moment, the entire world seemed to grind to a halt, and the only thing that existed was the cotton candy flavor of her lips and the gentle glide of her thumbs over his jutting cheekbones, before their mouths parted and Christine dropped down from her toes.

“You’ve never done anything like that here though, isn’t it exciting?! It’s like we have a stake in the city now. You'll have to show me which building it is on Sunday...I’m going have to start watching the local news!”

He snorted at the thought of Christine joining in with labor disputes and political campaigns at city hall. “Next you’ll be wanting to join the Junior League,” he suggested with a chuckle, but she’d turned with shining eyes.

“I should! That would be fun, actually. I could practice my Aunt Paulina manners and raise money for charities, that’s a win-win!”

They were both laughing at the thought as he pulled her away from her chores, tugging her down the hallway to their bedroom, not stopping until she was folded into his arms on the bed, her face tucked into the crook of his neck. She seemed to have forgotten about how upset she’d been the previous evening, but it was his intention to baby her the rest of the weekend.

“I think we should move,” he murmured into her hair. They’d been laying quietly for several long, peaceful minutes, her sharp nails lightly drawing patterns across his chest, and he reminded himself that he didn’t always hate them.

“Move? Why?!” She rolled to her back as Erik propped his elbow to hold his head, and he sighed in exasperation. It wasn’t the first time he’d broached the subject, but she always acted like it was the very first time she was hearing him suggest it.

“Because we’ve outgrown this place, Christine. We’re on top of each other, we don’t have room for our stuff. We’re grownups, we need to start living like it.”

“What are you talking about?! There’s plenty of room for our stuff. Maybe that means we need less stuff, did you think of that?”

He narrowed his eyes as she gazed up with a challenging look. “You know, I distinctly remember having an office once upon a time ago. Now I can’t even find the desk. Someone co-opted the room as their overflow closet.”

“What do you need a desk for? Your piano takes up half the living room, but I’m not allowed to put my off-season clothes in the spare bedroom no one sleeps in?”

“I have to do my grading on the floor at the coffee table!”

Erik cut off and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He was approaching this the wrong way.  _ You're not going to convince her by arguing, idiot. _ He opened his eyes slowly to see her still scowling up. 

“Baby,” he started in his sweet, honeyed tone, the one he knew made her squirm, “we can get a place that will fit  _ all _ of our stuff, and us. You can have a walk-in closet that’ll fit all of your clothes, with shelves for your shoes...a vanity table for all your makeup. We can have a bathroom big enough for us to turn around in...a tub! We could have a giant bathtub, and a walk-in shower. Two sinks. I’d never knock your contacts into the toilet again. Doesn’t that sound so nice?”

Christine's scowl has softened out, her eyes growing ever wider as he spoke. He’d had her at the shoe shelves, he knew. 

In the spare bedroom lived her shoe rack, a terrifying contraption which was actually comprised of  _ two _ shoe racks, one stacked on top of the other, and zip-tied together.

Erik lived in perpetual fear of being caught in front of it on the eventual day the rickety thing collapsed under the weight of too many skyscraper heels, much as he dreaded the inevitable avalanche on what Christine had affectionately dubbed  _ clothes mountain, _ the tower of clothes that was piled on the bench at the end of their bed. He was convinced they would be buried alive while sleeping one of these nights, a fear that could be easily assuaged by a closet big enough for Christine’s clothes.

The additional promise of a giant soaking tub had made the little furrow between her eyebrows smooth out, he noted hopefully.

“Could we have space for a music room? And a little yard?” 

Her eyes had brightened and there was a small smile playing at her mouth. 

“I loved working in the garden with my dad. Every summer we’d plant tomatoes and cucumbers, and I’d go out in my blue rain boots to water them every day after school. Those were the best tomatoes I’ve ever eaten.” She laughed softly and Erik knew she was far away from him in that moment. “Daddy said it’s because we grew them with love...could we have a garden, Erik? Please?”

“We can have whatever you want.” He squinted at the faraway look that remained in her eyes. “But I’m serious, angel. This isn’t just for pretend...I think we should consider finding a place before the fall semester.”

The little furrow between her eyes made an appearance and he quickly bent to kiss it away. “We’ll have a little flower garden and space for your tomatoes, I promise. A music room with great acoustics, a big kitchen...a room for our Legos…”

She gasped, and Erik felt his stomach flip at the brilliance of her smile. He would never not be completely bewitched by her.

“Now you’re just fighting dirty, you big jerk! That’s what every woman wants, you know. A walk-in closet and room for our Legos...you have to promise to take a bath with me every week, at least twenty minutes! I want that in writing, too.”

“Ten,” he countered. Despite his willingness to stay under the heated water of their hot tub at the lake house, he normally hated baths, hated the feeling of being slowly boiled alive. He always felt a pang of empathy for lobsters whenever Christine would gleefully announce that whatever hotel room they were staying in was in possession a soaking tub.

“Fifteen.”

“Twelve.” He was pushing his luck, he knew.

“Thirty.” 

The furrow was back between her eyes, and he rolled, pulling her back into his arms, pillowed against his bony frame. “Fine, twenty,” he conceded, pressing his thin lips to her forehead.

“See? I’m an expert negotiator.”

She dissolved into giggles against him as he chuckled into her hair, breathing deeply. Lavender and lilacs and warmth and  _ Christine _ . He didn’t think life could possibly be more perfect than it was at that exact moment, with her laughing in his arms. They’d find a bigger place in the downtown area, close to the school and the orchestra, and he’d move heaven and hell to give everything he’d promised. Permanent roots, for their permanent life together.

“Speaking of your master tactics, I think I’m supposed to be putting my tongue to work,” he reminded her as she nuzzled against his chest.

“You are, but I’m very cozy right here. I’ll take a raincheck ‘til tonight, ‘kay?”

Quiet reigned as his eyes grew heavier, the patterns he drew on her back dancing in harmony with her nails against his chest. He was very nearly asleep when she spoke again, and he found that he didn't even even need to look down to know the furrow between her eyes had reappeared.

“Erik? Exactly how many times have you knocked my contacts in the toilet?”

.

.

Meg was superb. 

Erik wasn’t sure why he was surprised, he knew how much time she devoted to practicing, but still...he thought maybe their friendship would have prevented him from being objective, but he needn't have worried. Bright, sparkling eyes, a wide smile that never faltered, and absolutely perfect form. The giant, beaded headdresses the girls wore in the act two opening number had to weigh nearly as much as she did, but she was a picture of grace as she spun her way through the mazurka.

Christine squealed in excitement once the number was over, clapping enthusiastically for Meg, squeezing his hand tightly once the music started for the next dance sequence. Erik felt his cheeks color every time she turned her smile up to him, leaning down impulsively to kiss her between numbers in the second act.

She'd given him a surprised smile when he pulled away, for he almost never initiated anything more physical than holding her hand when they were in public.

“I love you,” he whispered just as the music began to pick back up and the dancers came spinning out in a whirl of color.

He’d been adjusting the cuffs of the dark blue shirt Christine had picked out for him to wear that night when she’d come out of the bathroom in her lingerie to retrieve the grey and blue shirtdress she’d laid out on the bed, toothbrush in hand. She looked good enough to eat, and Erik decided they had plenty of time for him to cash in at least part of her rain check. She’d shrieked laughing protests when he scooped her up and brought her back to the bathroom, setting her on the edge of the cramped counter before dropping to his knees before her.

They’d still managed to leave on time for Meg’s performance and Erik had smugly pointed out that her assessment from that morning was correct--they were pros on the fine art of pleasing each other.

She’d gripped his hand when they’d entered the performance hall, a confident smile on her face, and Erik barely noticed the stares that may have slid over them. She was all that mattered. 

Daniel had spotted them almost immediately, waving from the small bar, a giant bouquet of lilies at his side. Christine pinched Erik’s arm as they approached, waving at the  _ intern _ brightly. 

“You’re playing matchmaker, aren’t you?!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said primly, as Christine choked down a laugh at his side.

“Good evening, sir! Ms. Daaé, you look lovely tonight, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“It’s so nice to see you again, Daniel!” Christine trilled, pulling the younger man into a one armed hug, shooting Erik a conspiratorial smirk, shaking her head in mock disgust over the younger man’s shoulder.

It wasn’t until after the performance that things had gone awry. 

“I can’t believe how talented they are!” Daniel exclaimed as the crowd surged to their feet when the curtain came up for the final bows. “You were right, sir! Definitely worth keeping an eye on!”

Their trio navigated the crowded corridor, pushing into the reception area. Christine clutched his hand tightly, tugging him through the crowd with that dazzling, self-assured smile, pulling him to the side of the room to wait for Meg.

“Erik! I’m surprised to see you!”

Erik instantly stiffened, and all three turned at the sound of the lightly accented voice. 

“Roman, he said cooly, feeling Christine’s fingers curl securely around his. “Good to see you again.”

“Likewise, my friend! I’m so glad you were able to make it to see the performance.”

Roman Wisnewski was a handsome man, if not a little too slick looking, Erik thought. Leanly muscled from his his own long-ago career as a dancer, with neat salt and pepper hair and a trim goatee, the man had always reminded Erik of some sort of malevolent forest sprite. The perfect counterpoint to Meg’s dark fairy, he thought with a frown, remembering that the man wanted to take her to Poland over spring break for workshops.

Christine and Daniel had both stood up a little straighter at his colder tone, he’d noticed;  at that cool, detached voice that both was and was not his.

“I owe you a debt of thanks for sending Ms. Giry our way, Erik,” Roman went on. “She has turned out to be quite the star!” Erik cleared his throat as the smaller man’s gaze moved appraisingly over Christine. “And who is this exquisite beauty?”

“His f iancée ,” she cut in smoothly, “Christine Daa é .” 

Christine’s hand had already been already extended forward, the bright smile on her face hardening as Roman’s eyebrows shot upwards.

The smaller man’s eyes swept over Christine, darting to the ring on her hand before moving to Erik. Her hand pulled back, obliging Roman to step to her, a decidedly chillier air replacing her normal sunny exuberance. 

“Angel, this is Roman Wisnewski, director of this company.”

“Charmed,” she said flatly, allowing the man to take her fingertips. Erik surreptitiously watched Daniel taking in the interaction with a tight smile, and what Erik hoped might have been a hint of realization in those wide doe eyes.

“Roman, this is my business associate--” Erik started, placing a hand at the small of Christine’s back as he spoke, before he was interrupted.

“Business associate and good friend of Marguerite--” Daniel cut in. 

Daniel, his prize find, the young Baron, his wolf-in-training with the exterior of a lamb; Daniel, possessing the easy confidence of someone who knew his name would open every door and remove every obstacle he ever found placed in his his path, who could take care of Meg and place her on an untouchable pedestal.

“--Daniel Barbezac.”

His voice was still too warm, too engaging to effectively strike fear, Erik thought in a detached corner of his mind. Daniel had never learned the hard lesson of closing his heart to present the world an icy aloofness, but it didn’t matter. That was the skill  _ he _ brought to the table. 

The bright-eyed young man enunciated his name clearly, and it had the desired effect. Erik watched as Roman drew himself up, sucking in a careful breath, at the same time as Christine stiffened beside him.

.

.

She’d waited until they were home, waited until the apartment door had clicked shut before whirling on him, blue eyes flashing in rage. 

 

“You lied to me.”

Christine had been silent on the drive home, staring out her window with a fixed gaze, steeping in her fury. They’d declined dinner with Meg and Daniel after the show, which had no doubt delighted Mr. Barbezac, although Meg’s eyes had narrowed at the sight of Erik’s stricken eyes and Christine’s tight smile.

“You lied to me, Erik,” she repeated, her fists balled at her sides. “I asked you if you knew the Barbezacs, and you said no.”

He could have continued the lie easily, he knew. A lifetime of lies and manipulations had left him well-prepared to twist the truth to fit his narrative. He knew he could use that darker voice that made Christine slacken and reshape reality to match his half-truths, but for the first time in his miserable existence, Erik found he had no desire to do so.

“Yes,” he said after taking a deep breath in preparation, “but it was only to--”

“To what? Manipulate them into going to see me? For the director at the symphony to hear my name coming out of the mouths of some wealthy donors? Do you even care how that makes me feel, Erik? How it makes me  _ look _ ?”

“Angel, I only wanted to--”

“Do  _ not _ ‘angel’ me. You only wanted to interfere. How am I supposed to know if anything I’ve been cast in for the last three years is because of my voice or because you’re pulling strings like we’re all your puppets? How am I supposed to feel good about my St. Matthew’s solo? Or the opera at school?”

He hated when they fought, hated when her anger was directed at him, hated the helpless desperation that seized him, as it did now. On and on she raged, most of it justified, he was forced to admit. 

For once, the neat stack of music atop his piano was ignored, the pillows on the sofa remained unmolested. Christine’s fury was firmly fixed on him, and him alone.

“Christine, I’m sorry, please,  _ please _ listen to me!” He’d been pleading with her, begging her with increasing desperation for what felt like an eternity, not that it was helping.

“How do you think I’m supposed to feel, knowing that maybe every role I’ve gotten is because of you? That all of my hard work counts for nothing because you’ve been manipulating things behind the scenes?”

She'd been pacing in front of the windows, and faced him with balled fists.

“Erik, this is my career!  _ My _ career, not yours! I don’t want you interfering! You don’t have any right...you had a career and you threw it away! That was  _ your _ choice to walk away, but you don’t get to make my choices for me!”

He recoiled at her words. Words said in fury, he would try to remind himself in the days to come, words said in anger, but that knowledge didn’t keep the barb that pierced his heart from stinging any less. She  _ knew _ why he had stopped performing, why he’d walked away from it all. He hadn’t made a conscious decision to end his career, he’d been trying to end his life, and Christine  _ knew _ that, he’d told her all of it, that night at the lake.

She was facing him again, staring him down with no remorse for her harsh words.

“How are we supposed to get married if we can’t trust each other? If you don’t respect me enough to let me have my own career?”

Her face was streaked with tears, but it was his voice that wavered in the silence that followed her questions; words that cleanly ripped his heart open.

“Christine,  _ please-- _ ”

“Get out. I can’t stand the sight of you right now. Just go somewhere. If you won’t, I will.”

She'd moved to face the window as she spoke, and didn't turn to face him again.

He barely remembered backing out of the apartment, how he got to his car, or the journey to the music lab. He was numb to the world, but somehow managed to drive the short distance. When the reflective elevator doors closed him into the box that would deliver him to his office, he stared at the ghost looking back at him.

Lank dark hair fell around his face and into his eyes. The tendons in his neck stood out in relief, and the stark black mask made his bloodless, bone white skin glow against it and the dark blue of his shirt.

His wide, glassy eyes took in the figure of a monster in the reflective surface, and his chest began to heave, the weight and reality of everything that had happened breaking through his stupor. He agreed with Christine, he thought, as the doors slid open at last.

He couldn’t stand the sight of himself either.


End file.
